if I am will against will

then there is no movement —

no blair, no birdsong in

the back of my mind; I am

block-head

 

 

 

 

 

 

we should plant moving grasses there where there is exposed

dirt, i was saying, and it would act as backdrop

to the japanese maple, as now when there are no

leaves, in winter just its branches, its form, –(which is

a standing heron) (essentially)– and then there would

be two waves, or two, levels, two terraces

forms, ondulating, small, short, moving

grasses, i was saying this to myself,

we should plant moving grasses there where

there is exposed soil, and at that moment

a heron flew across the sighting path,

just above eye level from right to left,

improbably but instantaneously on a line

so

 

 

 

 

 

 

it is not that i did not want

to be there among it and among

it, it’s that i did not belong

there; and at the moment of that

that the hawk flew into view

right to left but out of

sight and in order to see

it i had to crane my neck

for it was outside the window

frame at the spot floating

as it were above the point of insight, large,

as i looked at all the roads

and multiple bundles of small connections, grey,

very grey.

 

 

i will not know this city in entirety;

i will know only a quadrant of the city;

and at that moment, the hawk flew

off, away, from left to right

again high up over head, nearly –

and then out of sight with in the space

of two windows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the dendrites of the trees

all grey matter, all different

degrees of grey, a hawk glides

through, left to right, and up,

large, and passing, significant,

thought

 

 

 

 

 

 

i said to myself thinking about

a hawk    while sitting again in an orientation

presentation, the picture windows in

front of me – woods – and wondering

what and where – and what connections,

my son sitting beside me, would and

will and might make – and then on

cue as if on cue a large bird,

hawk, undoubtedly,   flew  from right

to left       and landed in the uppermost

branches of one of the many

trees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I woke up thinking about waves

and letting a wave go, what it

looks like continuing,   what

that thought is, that image and

another that follows it    a familiar

looking window up a familiar looking

street in autumn or an open

sky of a particular color blue tinted

with a hint of violet      letting that

wave go to what is awakened again

sound of voice of a friend’s

mother but not because the mother

’s was not often at sing-songy,

letting the wave see the appearance

of the child at reunion – a mother

pulling behind her her small rolling

suitcase up the sidewalk,    and

her barely contained, not contained

joy, even in the inelegance of this

this old carry-on, pull along suit-case

approaching what is still her child’s dorm,

wave, i woke up thinking about all

the colors, and the sound,

and that color   sound     appeared

in the air,   for moments,   i woke up

saying   think about the wave   keep adding a     

moment   to the wave

 

 

 

 

 

 

the dog will want to be let in

as you are/i am meditating —

the hawk

lands in tree at moment of thought

the dog

returns to screen door

at moment

of revelation

the hawk takes

off with its considerable weight

from tree in yard

right to

left      upward            higher

into       tree           two      houses

away      across      the alley.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it is of course

all transit

the two holly trees against the fence

the arrival of the hummingbirds

their departure

the small grey dove beneath

the slatted metal table

taking shelter in the rain

in the aftermath

of hurricane; the dog asleep

beside, inside, adjusting

to house now with her

two protectees matured and walking into

wide-spaced well-spaced parentheses

 

 

 

 

 

 

the way a hummingbird feeds, drinks, eats

is neither hurried nor slowed, it is simply

itself taking in nutrient in amount in

interval    bent neck/smooth back of head,

straightened head,   repeat, several times

in its manner,   at its table,   and

then to perch, or up above to hidden

or unconcealed branch above

in hackberry which it does

not disdain, and again to above

somewhere perhaps a thimble nest

is in-set; while another humming-

bird feeds, drinks, eats; it is

neither hurried nor is it slowed,

it is its time, not heron, time,

it is time of flutter,             again

appears      these moments ———— the hand

of infant      suspended mid air

for a moment unimaginably long

the air still imagined as a globe of

amniotic fluid

 

 

 

 

 

 

the leaf is suspended by a nearly invisible thread

the brown dog walks underneath the street address

a hummingbird makes three quick stops

at althea blossoms at the neighbor’s

plants, and the leaf of course is shape

of heart                                          turns

in breeze

warm, damp, heavy,      of seacoast