A flamboyance of slate-blue history—
these eyebrow-penciled water bearers,
these tales twice-told flock over cobblestones,
revolve around each other, faster and faster.
An end game looms.
Stone-faced, they recite odysseys of lost mates,
woven mud nests, tangled mangrove roots.
They haven’t lost their fancy footwork.
Not yet.
They dance together or alone, on one leg or two.
How straight they fly into the offing, the sun.
