Our marks
are made over
years,
          in earth,
scattered seed
for birds,
their hunger fed
          but never
sated, they
wander as lost as
this rain running
down walls
        trying to get
back to  
source, and if we
found it would it
call us,
a wilderness
of thoughts,
          syllables
that tell us who
we are,
and yet there
are clues they are
lost too, a
         stutter, a
loss of air, a
shrinking
of places it is
safe to be, to
breathe,
to really see.