All the stirring feather,
almost without shadow,
these shining seed-heads,
in noon's translucency,
cannot hide the quiet figure
studies the dilapidated character
of the bird feeder atop its sturdy post,
big white sketch pad held up to nature.
Whereas, with streams of words,
and from bird throat fluted too,
other parallels follow and curl
round the cadence of a cloud
plunges us in gloom
like plunging into water -
cool currents and turbulence,
the silvery bubbles
(a lashing gust connotes).
Impossible to focus on the thing itself
in this Heraclitean stream -
when sun renews
minnow shallows,
lights the gravel,
every stone chip a planetoid
resting in aggregate.
