By David Butler
It is as though an incandescent swarm
has clustered, on a spindle of his breath,
to fabricate a hive
in the hot globe of amber.
The air is given hands,
cupping the molten bubble thrown out
by his steady lung, crafting
the dull red sun until it sets,
like a premonition of Winter,
into the fragile geometry of glass.
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My Monday was pretty quiet -- laundry, a trip to the parcel locker to pick up packages, reconstructing a pair of earrings to go with a necklace -- before walking to the park in the afternoon, where we saw some ducks, some herons, and our dog friend Tucker and his owner Shelley. Then we walked out on the dock and saw the eagles, more herons (or possibly the same ones flew north), and a new family of geese and goslings, plus many ducklings and their parents.
We saw most of the Orioles game, which was going well (two Adley home runs) until the bullpen got involved and they lost in extra innings. Then we watched the Mariners win around dinner. Now we're watching Eileen, which someone posted was like evil Carol, which so far seems fair -- I think it's going to have a worse ending because everyone's lives are so much worse, but the women are mesmerizing. Here at last are glassblowing pics from Art By Fire from Friday:
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