when we return                of the world        of ourselves
to the routines                   to the silence

let us set                             let us sit
the stones                           in the gloaming
to a bright new room       and watch the light
and conceive                     shake with
of its colors                        beautybeautybeauty

what is your hand
in the mystery
of things?

what is it
that you choose
to gather?

with eyes
to the horizon
there can be no measure

the winter fields
are thickly quilted
  
in snow
and the crows

call cold
their messages

a bold blue sky
tugs the sun

to a quick exit
last night

i saw
mother moon

floating 
in the trees

last night  
i heard

the stars
calling out

across the darkness

november has been stubborn
with its lingering warmth

its slow turn to redyelloworange
and so i have arrived late

to an appreciation of the ginko leaf
autumn demands

and clamors for color
fancily dances its displays

of spark
and flame

but only now do i humbly behold
its green to gold

it’s perfect fans feathered
slipping free

and sliding silently
before finally settling

upon the ground


should you seek           inspiration
should you need          evidence of prayer

asked
and answered

here it is

it made its way upstream
black shining reeds for legs

a body perfectly white plumed and winged
and that beak

a splinter of lightning
its long neck twisting flashing forward

ever patient
in the search for prey


we break time
down

into bits
dayhourminutesecond

we break time
up

into chunks
weekmonthyearlife

but there are moments
when time does not move

and this was one of them

each morning the crows  
gather in the trees

behind our house
dozens of them

calling out
carrying on

sweeping back
and forth
  
in between the tight spaces
of things
  
don’t we wish
to watch well above the world?

don’t we hope
to trace the light ascending?

swooping through
the shadowy spaces

of the narrow underpass
the crow came to rest

atop the fence
right beside me

delicate in its beak
the bird held another’s egg

tilting its head
for an instance

it regarded me
before hopping

upon the air
and was off

it that all there is to it?
the nonchalance of life

and death?  
there one moment
  
gone the next  
as everything spins

and turns
and beats

and breathes
into silence?

through the night
the snow fell in a silent soliloquy

when the angles and eaves
could no longer sustain it

it rolled off the roof in rumbles
crumpling in chunks

the snow glowed
with blue denseness

trees heavy
with the white of it

boughs heavy
with the weight of it

all morning
we poked with sticks

releasing the branches
in great gusts

of dust
when gathered in grace

we place
our hands together to share

a single word
a single prayer

amen

with the slightest tilt
of its tail feathers

an imperceptible shift
in the weight
  
from one wing
to the other

the subtle bend of its body  
the hawk

made measurements and calculations
about the wind
  
swinging in perfect circles
turning in upward spirals

free and easy  
upon the unseen currents of thermals

then
as if breaking from a meditation

it found a crease in the air
and set out across the dark blue of the lake

i do not know
what will happen next

and my mind
is far too cluttered to care

but i once stood  
and bore witness to a hawk

showing me all
that was possible

the fox alights
from a dark stand of trees

and down
through the deep drifts

of snow  
it is a myth

of woodsmoke
and vermilion

and it stands silently
beneath the streetlamp

before being led away
by notes we cannot perceive

for our part
we turn hopeful eyes

to night skies
and cling to the promise

of unspooled mysteries
however

at times
we are so savagely illiterate

to the stories
in the stars
  
uncomprehending to the roles
and lines

of constellations