Thursday, April 5, 2012

Window Watcher

In slow afternoons,

in warbled contemplations,

in failed poetry –

in silence,

I watch the window.


The slightest space leaks

succulent stimuli:

destroyed lawns, gasoline,

the ambient choir of cicadas.


Nothing.


The angular sun draws warm landscapes

across my resting arm,

hairs like tinsel in daylight.


Nothing.


A butterfly passes;

ostentatious oscillations

of watercolour wings,

a winking kaleidoscope

against the naked sky.


It stirs.


Pressed against the glass, my gaze

finds a Blue Jay equally inspired.

A Raven’s call,

a beak, a claw,

pitiless leering

and thrilling pursuit.


Below, even ants shiver

in momentary night –

twin shadows tracing the earth

in disappearing ink.


At window’s edge the game is done.

A clutching claw finds purchase.

The butterfly’s futile fluttering fails,

and razor beak’s to purpose.


But it is no more dead than the grass,

the song of the cicadas,

the sun.

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