Cursed Blessing

She chases the light across the westering sky
as an afficianado of what arrives between extremes.

Her eyes are pursed like lips,
the better to savor the softest last retreat of day:
its colors so subtle they are almost not.

There was a moment of light once
on the far side of a particular smile
that drew her to this avocation,
and thereafter, she's sought to live in
the moment between day and night
and travels ever westward
as a dream-flyer,
legs pumping, running,
so when she touches down
her strong limbs propel her body
mostly fast enough to take wing again,
though there are days when she half-runs, half-flies
across entire regions.

She soars counter to earth's spin
and equally fast.

She prefers dawn to dusk,
but traveling ever west,
cannot gaze long enough
upon the object of her desire,
having to look away as much as at;
others like her have died trying owning dawn,
smashed into bridge abutments or
tangled in high tension wires.

Every now and again, in need,
she rests half a day in Kansas or Utah,
then runs, stumbles backwards, circles, waits,
and sings a duet with the break of morning
as it cracks the dark.

She knows the single note dawns intone.

There is nothing for it but to stay aloft
and in movement.

To love, transition is a curse.


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