NOVEMBER 2nd, BIRDS AT DAWN

 

Dark and low clouds outside

and the shuffling of leaves on leaves,

from the oak, rusty hue, dusty orange.

I’m in bed, shutters closed,

I am awake, I know it’s early

and I lie in the wake of my having been

early for ages, waiting for whatever

bides its time.

Dark and still, I sense the low clouds

in the absence of wind.

The countryside and its stare,

the scattering and gazing of here into there,

maybe I began as a digressing child

giving a face to the countryside,

eyes breathing, seeping into skin,

earth in its damp progressing within

and eyes crediting marvels, unseen,

loving the familiar unknown, within.

Now I am hearing a sound that’s almost a sting,

but it’s soon clear it is a close chirping

like tatted lace in the shutter

indulging in the fabric of its own matter.

The dark filling with fingers of light,

the chirping like an audible smile,

even now, on the year’s decline:

I can’t but believe in what begins.