The Myth of Stasis

In river shallows, minnows freely eat what glistens there. 
A little further up the chain, the wading birds claim, too, 
what's theirs. The ant has found its clod of sugar,
and the spider has secured its pantry.  What kind 
of luck is yours? Card of the sauntering fool 
capped with melodic bells; of sharkless waters,  
full cups and benevolent swords— It's a deck 
made up of singular scenarios, pulled then 
spread out on the table.  The moon is always cusped, 
or always on the wane. The pleated shade in one window 
might not match its twin and the circuit breaker box 
is upside down; you haven't had a full night's sleep 
in days, but you're convinced change is coming: 
a shift, a turn; a good wind to shuffle the cloudy dark.