The circle

the ropes stay taut
connected to the tree by a loose knot
and a lot of friction.

the gentle motion of the swaying trees
moves the ropes, moves me
causing everything
to fall into Zephyrus’s rhythm

the dull hum of pool machinery
attempts to drown out
the piercing chirps of the birds
and “Purple Honey”
flowing from my iPhone’s
dusty speakers

the branches
frame the colored sky,
lilac, fading from setting sun
hanging like a painting,
a circular disk of color
“purple lovely, dancing gloomy”

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