High above, a hawk hovers,
Scanning the morning waves
For bright flashes of breaking fins.
The water wanders under the wind’s
Cool hands, the sun’s eye
Peeking through oak branches.
In such a setting the sick mind
Thinks irresistibly of magic,
Imagines fantastic fossils on the floor,
Dark shadows in the din of trees.
What are these moments of beauty
But memories of dim should-have-beens?
Listening, the trees lean closer.
The sun climbs behind a cloud.
The wind winds down, and so do you.
No comments:
Post a Comment