Each night
Swallows perform an aerial ballet,
Swirling in unison against a red horizon,
Itself the threshold to an infinite sky.
We saw beluga whales yesterday;
They were ghosts.
Densely white and flying,
Wildly circling the chlorinated water,
A shade of sickly blue.
A trainer blew a whistle,
Ushering the dancers between shallow containers
Of cement and hand blown glass.
One bellowed through the hole in her head,
Her body an instrument of protest
Against the daily circus.
My son ignored the whales
Pointing instead to a common pigeon.
The bird rested on cement
Molded in the shape of illusory stone
Meant only to fool a willing audience.
Look at the whales, I said.
Look at the pigeon, he pointed.
And he was right:
To point, indivisible, toward
Freedom.
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