winged things

snow angels, paper angels – he was obsessed with them. he remembered kaleidoscopic visions in the butterfly garden where peacocks, and red admirals and cabbage whites swirled around him and his buddleia halo of purple.
but the snow angels melted away. yellow snow of dog’s piss baptised disappointment and footsteps at the edge of the white-hemmed path which had been dug clear.
the paper angels were screwed into a ball in the trash can, sprinkled with glitter from the disposed of xmas cards his mother didn’t want. he had tired of paper aeroplanes but there was something magic in paper angels – the way the emerged from a few cuts; but no one in his household shared the fascination.
the butterfly garden was gone as well – all the plants which drew those brightly coloured insects in uprooted and replaced with easy to maintain gravel.
watching these things he was given to wonder whether for something to be beautiful it must also have built into it a fleetingness. it saddened him. he poured the cream into his coffee and watched the spiral become a cloud that bubbled through and changed the liquid. how long did the change take to occur? this glass cup held now plain as brown coffee, but for a second it the beautiful poetry of fluid dynamics. he smiled – he decided he didn’t mind if it did not exist for long as long as it existed.

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