Birds, Bats, and Sea: after Lutoslawski

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They’re never quite one shape.
Birds in a wobbly chevron
break; sea spray’s thrown
up and gone
before you can join
the dots.

Wild things dancing in a cave.
A flurry of bats
fast as night falls
with ripping of wings;
the whipping
of a magician’s cloak
whirled over the world.

The wind dies. Clouds curl
in one dark flow, adagio.

But resurrected trembling
the wind swoops up
stars, stars, stars,
and the sea’s arms are
flinging light through prisms;
making multiplications and divisions.

We try to join the dots
but there is no algorithm
in a world so wild,
moving to no rhythm.

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