Clouds

blur the horizon,

smudge

the crooked line

defining

here and there,

then and now.

Slowly,

the crows return

to roost

in the evergreen’s

upswept boughs,

their wings glossy,

inked with words

unwritten.

The sky inhales,

constricts and

saturates.

The rains will pour;

the dreaming

recommence.

The words

will

f

o

l

l

o

w .

 

— C.Birde, 7/17