. Scurrilous birds fly by, To nest in the little painted Houses left clear for them, In awkward circles they romp Their peculiar dramas With ****** wings.
Do they even witness The skies revolving canvas, New masterpieces each day, How the light shimmers In the sparkle rays of sun, How the golden fields, Of vales in sighted sweep And dance, airy etudes, By the windfall gusts So suddenly arising?
These visions are marks For but few, who hear time As it plays in stepped quartets Of the spiraling seasons song, For the lone mercies, gifts, To ones most gentle, merest, Spirited eyes who gaze deftly, Deep in sacred days, From a window.