like Concords,
bellies pink in the afterglow
and the day surrenders
to the inaccessible nights
i hear the soft bugle of mates
acquaint the young in grey flannel
with a world made for them,
a singular devotion to an unknown faith
they tilt wings chosen by angels
and drop their black paddle feet
to the salted beds of resurrection,
the cradle of a just sea
then the hush of divine stillness
as they rest illumined and infinite
under a moon of countless winters
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