Dance of the Contrails
Dancing contrails, reflected. Swallowed by the palest blue and mauve, each window taking up the pattern and then passing it along, refracted.
Barely there, mere lines of chalk, ghost-writing. Vapor, disintegrating into the ether.
What is their meaning, these high-flying squiggles?
Lines of visual poetry, for those willing to see.
The October version of the Third Thursday Challenge will be open through the end of the month. Jump in and join us!