| two hawks carve tempo in tightening gyres...one folds its wings…a whisper before lightning...shadow sharpened...eye honed on the hush below…the crow...coal bodied...still as mourning...stands sentinel in the meadow’s breath...squirrel clutches silence...then breaks it... alarm in staccato...above...the sky wears the ghost of a storm...a rainbow hangs like bent brass across the blue...beneath it...the aggregates...stone choirs risen from molten histories...each one a version...a memory cooled into form...they dot the earth like notes on a staff...each struck from fire...each waiting to be read...one...where the rainbow lands...shimmers...a soul re-aligned...redrawn by the hand of rain and ash...the hawk does not strike...it circles...improvises...the meadow listens...the jazz of nature...unscripted...where even stone has a solo...and the silence knows the score... |
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