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Marguerite of Horatius
Sun-streaked auburn hair,
tanned shoulders with the beginnings of a burn, dappled with dew
La tuffatrice in volo
She is not Icarus.
She aims for the sea --
to arrive there in perfect pitch from the sky.
She stands, hands pointing north and south
toes on the edge
back to the brink
A slight bend in the knees
a taut bob of the arms
starting momentum
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With an arch of her neck, her body springs -- upward... outward...
...airborne...
Over the precipice her frame arcs into the sky
Seemingly out of the sun
circumvolving in slo-mo
heels over head over heels
almost perfect...
almost...
The rotation a hair from completion
when her nape nicks the crag
from where she leapt
one split-second
and the reflexes of mortal men kick in
Bodies in motion are in flight before she even touches the water
Simultaneous splashes
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and arms are there to gird her dazed form...
lifting... upward through the sea
All at the surface
and only seconds have elapsed.
Marguerite draws a breath
and the rest of us can release ours.