Clover leaves spread o'r sparrows on window sills friendly feathering the birds in the sun
T'weet t'where the sweet birds are planted- clay bricks stacked and slanted, dry and dripping with dry life
"Neat," one would say while walking up, wondering whether who ever walled so well was who watched out the window
When should it rain and when so would whoever wonder whether rain should run the wall wet or wash away the dryness
I walked up to the wall, rust red and rising away, and saw a slight motion behind the window behind the arboreal avians. The motion didn't move much, nor was I certain of motion for the glass glared on my eyes as I saw what I saw.
O'r meadow O'r field O'r Sky O'r hill
O'r is over, over; either over the sky or in it.
For the sky met the ground, not as the window met the sill, but as the mother met her baby before it was
And she felt it move behind the window, remove the needle from the phonograph, and heard the birds
stop singing into dry silence.
I climbed the wall as stairs or a wall- crunching clay in my fingers and feet. For fun I felt the dust could
drift just about anywhere so long as I no longer looked up at its shape. So down it went, up I went,
down, it went down. Or so I'd assume had I not been watching the rain gather and spray, water the day's
crop of birds- Tremulicious birds now silent.
I'd weep if I didn't think they were happier that way.
Pausing, waiting, phonographs absorbing the conversation of tomorrow:
Drinking it! Thinking it neat that their knees should stay planted so long.