you'll see sometimes an old or infirm gull,
a bit grubby, long since less than ebullient,
limping in a length of fishing line maybe --
that's how their seasons end, rapidly slowing
towards the speed of stone; still in motion;
the swaying moon glides on, turning, vacuous;
it's a hobbled chunk of an avalanche
banging towards the big emptiness, opening
it for rock to fly in tethering circles
of curves; parabolas; and springs of straightness
through meshwork of nested slingshots; tangled?
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