April is gone again. My eyes look
up
into a bath of onyx sky. Soft undersides
of white-tipped
doves
shining pale like fish in
water. Gold washed silver, thirty or
more in
skies of night. They flock, they glow as vaguely as the
city vapor lights. silence They
leave behind the space they once
absorbed like prayers and
promises and
love's exchange; they
take into an arch of sky, driven
as we are,
by
life inside the life above the grayscale
line of fence and
gravel road.
M
Madison
24 apr 2000 |
