Black capped shrieks tear the sky into sharp angles 

winging vivid pale across blue, catching 

the midnight sun’s 

horizon light 

in scarlet blades. There are none fiercer

near nests, except every mother. 

It’s unwise to generalize 

about arctic terns and especially 

about moms

or any other thing, in general

but even the blushing salmon’s body melts 

long before the yolked alevin become fry 

in the very same river each following fish

will someday seek

to die in

as if every particle in every possible 

being were bound viciously, passionately

undeniably as one 

to be known in a thrust of air  

lifting feather

or the drawing tide

on silver scale

each cell a spark emerging 

and returning 

as one original fire.

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