Monique van Maare
Breathcatching
quicksilver swallow
skirts a waving field, skipping,
like a hurled pond-stone
without the weight,
just the air that ripples
as if she doesn’t carry
anything, no tired tendons
to drag her flitting turns,
no tremor-echo
from the peregrine’s claw
that almost raked her from the sky,
no weariness at all,
her sleek shape
as light and free
and sharp
as catching breath