By Thomas Page

Sometimes but not always there is a chiasmus

Between strangers as they pass

And they just know that this was meant to happen

Without a word to isolate them

Or a gesture to consolidate them

Just a moment to exist

And share in something beyond what can be said

In any tongue of the world—

The cloud drifting like the duck floating beneath it

And the sun shining down on them both

With a songbird filling in the blanks

Left by the reflected branches

With its leaves beginning to glide into the body

Of the water rushing down beneath a bridge

Into the bay merging with the horizon.

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