10/11/23

The slippery flipper glistens in the twilight’s moon-sun. A penguin’s song is between: flight and flightless. It does soar along torrents, plumes of riptide. Graceful, look at it now! Between: life and death. The race against the speed of seal fang, seal’s maw. Between scenes of family and play and destitution, frozen tundra. Should its last notes fade, would we call it no longer between? Is the penguin its every thing or only its last? Between: liminality’s embodiment is scar tissue. That without demarcation was never there, that which was never between never departed or arrived.