I used to write poems about nature.
Nothing in particular,
just clouds,
and wind,
and sounds.
Of brief encounters
with other living things
of various species,
none more mysterious than my own.
I remember once,
this bird landed on a thistle.
He was colorful and bright,
offset against the waning light.
Suddenly, sharply,
as if awaiting the tap of a maestro,
as if stricken like a note itself,
he sang his heart out.
It was brilliantly composed,
masterfully performed,
a truly inspired work.
A silence followed.
Looking briefly from side to side,
hoping someone noticed.
He reluctantly flew,
bobbing on gray skies, into the autumnal horizon.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
I used to write poems about nature.
Nothing in particular,
just clouds,
and wind,
and sounds.
Of brief encounters
with other living things
of various species,
none more mysterious than my own.
I remember once,
this bird landed on a thistle.
He was colorful and bright,
offset against the waning light.
Suddenly, sharply,
as if awaiting the tap of a maestro,
as if stricken like a note itself,
he sang his heart out.
It was brilliantly composed,
masterfully performed,
a truly inspired work.
A silence followed.
Looking briefly from side to side,
hoping someone noticed.
He reluctantly flew,
bobbing on gray skies, into the autumnal horizon.
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