Jig

A regular pig dug a small furrow.
Children came by and put toy armies in it.
Later, by the lightning, the actual secret emerged.
The whisper of it got into my words.
Swarming rays, enchanted intervals.
Make all the flying of any fly’s life.
One spiraline narrative.
As a fluid structure in our hearts.
Whose nature digs a furrow.
Where some children hide their armies.
And soon, o soon, once more.
Comes the lightning.
And the secret.