These changeable days glower hard and grey;
the rough winds blow your paper - Ptah! - away.
Then sun shepherds the gravid cumuli
on sky trods, brights bird-wings as they flit-flee,
and silver-shines browed tangles of fruit trees -
so sits the silent blackbird there at ease.
Evening's the theater of his green-room day,
when on the deepening drear lets fall his say -
sets diamonds in the bedding of the dusk;
adorns the cortage of old winter's husk.
And dawns he prints out live with his surround
in 7.1 - a 4D shaman sound;
knows how - it's true - and when the lights will change,
conducts the grey to blue where sun might range,
if he trill-tongues the immemorial plan.
Though, now-a-dawns, I'm not a grey-hour fan,
yet I remember waking in that gloom
my room with crystalline transcendence strewn.
