watching birds
watching birds

In this continuum of days it has grown.

And all garb that is worn

In our land’s wild cloud-cast sky

Any possibility of variation is not

For all rightful parts on hand.

So I am glad of fog’s pathway

Taking my spirit to you

Unknown warmth-drawn thing lacking

In sorrow and drift- in your lasting room.

Rhythm is in motion again.

Upon your withdrawal it will light up,

Circadian hands cast shadows across

Your mournful shift from growth to fall

Murmurs to grown dawn.

Awaiting winds

Bring a kind of natural vow.

Wisdom says not to allow drowsy

Among this span of dormancy’s hanging stars

But a soul must pay-no truth

Has drawn angst in us in our past

To long lulls in misty bays, and limits

In grasp, difficult passing

From high spirit’s schoolings

And our lasting loyalty, cold in its pursuit

Of virtuous risk.

A word might allay our harsh storm,

But at that high basin’s point disbands

Clouds that rout with rocks

All who stand as participants

Parading through sunlit grasslands

Not only a though gloom was in no way looming

But as though watching birds had always known.

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