The sky at Villeneuve
Just past the mountains, indigo at dusk, the ducks form a shepherds' staff of finger-tip chevrons flying over the string of filament lightbulbs bordering the lake. Innate order, bone high they complete a prophecy of mine that birds will always come over still water if you wait but I wasn't waiting -- the sun upside down in my wine glass, a spear of hot star on blue stone, we spoke of salt nights and serenity while the ducks moved in the sky, knowing I needed them to prove my own words startling me with what I know -- forever poetry pointing weightless and breathing. C. LJ Ireton 2025