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Strange that I never saw the crane flies mate Before. Surprised, absorbed, I watch them dance, Aloft on feeble wings. As they advance, Retreat, rise, fall, over my lawn this late March morning, bodies joined to generate Next spring's ephemera, I drift toward trance: One hour ago I would have called it chance That I found two crane flies to liberate. I found them in the den--I often do-- Swept air with my cupped hands to make a cage, And took them outside where I set them free. These mating ones I see--again? are two. Did I grant them this final happy stage Of their brief lives, this dying ecstasy? |
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