Out of focus, on the tip of the tongue.
All summer it was the hawk,
moving dot connecting the city.
Almost close enough to touch, then
so high in the sky it hurt.
Today a flock of birds practised leaving.
It was as simple as that.
Like Brueghel’s painting, they carried on
their lives in the foreground beyond the glass
while I was Icarus, failing.
— from Juniper Volume 5, Issue 2