There is a woman whose body is the flight of birds. She reclines along the watery rim of the world.

There is urgency to what must be done. Time moves through her in a tight whirl, a furious condensation, drilling through her middle, raising a rustle and sending off splash. 

In each bird beats a compass heart. Each body has the power to lift and return. Nothing is broken.

She is Our Lady of Undulation and Repose, so loosely woven, so permeable, so lasting. In her we are flocked, both free and belonging.


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