I can see
for ages—nothing much
will happen.
Rain later, but for now—
that minor
threat, whispering on a doleful
breeze,
merely bears
an orange-
glazed morning bird—
flitting amid the
paisley
design of flowers—
deliberate
and frisky
as a dart—as unburdened
by the resplendent
weight of this light
that's slowly
but surely fermenting
as he is by his
own little
mania
for making
the most
of every last
wedge of incandescent
day.
