Most days now, the rushing of wings overhead.
Startling as one, rising from the grass,
arrowing into formation;
always ahead of inadequate prophecy.
The moon leans against the roof of the world.
Most of us live in the lower levels:
there, we burnish the soil
with the fire and hunger of our bellies.
With everything this close,
even the hollow in a reed has meaning.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- The season turns again
- We woke and the world was colder,
- I wanted the taste of bitter greens
- Sibilant Ghazal
- Life Skills
- Dear Naga Buddha,
- Notes to/on the plagiarist
- The Empress of Malcolm Square
- 4 Etchings
- In One and the Same Moment
- Wayang Kulit
- Exit Interview (excerpt)
- And ever
- Canción sin fin
- Pavor Nocturnus
- If only the wind now dresses the trees
- Elegy, even after 22 years
- The years teach much that the days never know*
- Thin fog, as in the corners of a tintype—