Walking out
under the thick and
endless canopy of clouds,
I strained to see new colors;
And finding none
but enduring grey,
I decided to close
my eyes instead
to see what sound it all made.
At first,
a dull whir of traffic,
the drone of jets,
that scrape of desiccated leaves
did little to improve my sense
of somber muted silver;
but then I realized
that I was still looking-
obliging and inviting
and demanding dusky slate.
Finally, I just gave up,
and I heard birds.
Not the sound of birds,
but birds;
bright blue and green ones,
there and here ones,
singing cheap and feckless,
bald and fearless songs
of what came before red
or goes after purple,
off east or west somewhere
cold, then quickly warmer
in gold
in circles
in warbles that dove and
ones that didn't-
And I felt I heard
or heard I felt,
there in dark bare winter,
nature blaze in brightest emblems;
only, now I saw
no longer straining
(and hardly breathing),
That I didn't even want to look at it that way.
