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The flowing mirror

Time seems to hover, hold its breath above the glass-flat river - then a late, low swallow, dipping near the water, pocks its surface sheen. Before the river's trowelled smooth, a slight wind finger signs its name, and then a leaf spins out, is borne again, by water, not by limb. Late racing light crowds in along the glossy stream with such quick feet for all its blaze it leaves no dent, no ripple snags its dazzling spring - the windless, soundless sun, like thought, blooms in the eye, shaped candle light.