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Dust
I followed the dust particle floating across my room;
more interesting than the flickering TV it passed,
rising rapidly from the heat the screen generated,
swirling for a heartbeat, captured in some unseen vortex.
Then, moving on, collecting a few friends from unread books,
pets, lovers long departed, embarking on a journey.
A tiny crowd amasses, circling, following the grooves,
twisting, dancing to the laid-back beat of Herbie Hancock.
A Pause, before leisurely following the golden wings
of a Meadow Brown making escape toward a window,
passing a shaft of sunlight igniting a trillion specks
of shimmering dust, a microscopic murmuration;
dust, which was something once.
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
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