I stepped from my house this morning,
head crowded with voices from dreams,
into shivering air, trembling air, symphonies
of waxwings and robins, a percussion
of crows ... Why do we enter the future
with the past in our night pockets? Trees
shook with squirrel passions; goldfish
drifted from the pond's dark bottom
up into pale water, reacquainting themselves
with the surface. The day passed slowly.
At dusk the mountains were scarved with mist.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
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