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Swing

On a light piece of found wood, found, thick, plank. Two holes drilled, facing each other gapped by itself, the wood itself. High pressure winds (timed to synchronise) push through the holes. Acting feet the wind becomes. Away it goes, forwards and back, each position living in a past of potential futures. Waiting and seeing fake. Between spaces its travel is dense, hooraying and despairing and willing in scenarios drenched with land and room. Room for a position, ready to clock points of an arc, situating a swing.