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Gary Lebel

Axle

Evening sunlight streams through its ragged wings. Barely able to fly, the swallowtail leaves a soft, fine dust on my fingers as I usher it carefully to the edge of the woods. Gone are the dancing yellow rings of early summer, those fluttering, amorous wheels whose well-greased axle is eternity.

after the rain
a finch stops to drink
from the sundial's eye