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Veils of high cloud filament and fur an Om combed up there by the larynx of wind to haze, that far below, though high enough to my lifted gaze, swifts sweep, scythe and flicker.
A breeze stirs orchard tops; taller, the palmate maple counts on lobed fingers what the air brings, that running stream of chaos written-in; thin branches curl and rock, wracked, sway together.
I strive to hear just what it is the blackbird has to say today, darknesses in glitter-falls of notes that find their way through glabrous, factories of privet leaves to nest-lodged interiors.
In caverns of disordered hedge wall I've left to flower, spiders meditate in webs that run their glints in gusts. Next door, dad squeaks toddlers splashing in plastic pool - the ruckus-rumpus of delight subsides.
