fourthirty pm

the sixth of march -
wind up and clouds
building in from the
southwest -
two juncos and a song
sparrow dig through
the litter beneath
a thicket of
blackberry
i've seen robins
write poems
at the tops of trees
as they
watch the day
become night,
watch
the sky sail past -
watching
what cant be named
ceaselessly move -
we feel
the pattern of the waves
as we see our own mind -
any moment,
whether we are
one, or as one, or
alone, alone -
the mystery of being
in whichever attire -
here
is where the mystery
lives.