If she had ever dreamt of flying this might be her dream
but she has never had a dream of flying, as far as she remembers.
It is a mystery she appears to know how.
In the row of houses she is holding all the doors open from her heart. All are closed.
Half her face is marbled with lines and shadow, a roof rests on her head
and why hover over this particular landscape at sun's pink setting?
Perhaps an aesthetic choice places her there.
It is the wind which keeps her bouyant,
a ship sailing through the sky,
without apparent departure or destination site,
an everlasting moment
seen by one other.