> 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.
>
>
I like this. I would drop what don't find necessary those rising goldfish:
...reacquainting themselves
with the surface.
Good eye, ear!
Stephen V
http://stephenvincent.net/blog/
