a week since our completion of the yearly circuit
and still we find these muddy flats
generous bright paw filled and poised below
geese have their seams across sky and chuck.
let these few minutes stand for those.
we find our instruments are not key.
these largely un-moorable instants -
the calendar flows like honey and the cupboard is bare.
wait for the next remittance.
allow extra time as
a tax on the poor.
in the air we have seen all manner of great things.
we find these waters fine, though bruised, and needing
our last entries are not final. when we measure the
temperature of the sky
we find a layered delight, and
every blackbird will find us - and still we
gunned down pelicans and their allies, pelicans
shot, and their cousins, shot, too.
shot and dead and dying and eyeing the sky from earth and sea to the sky and back,
sent back to the great and undifferentiated
we cannot speak this code much longer. please find this
under the leaves, under the weighted winter moon -
our plea is what any would consider - the lengthening day - the pearl blue corner of the set sun.