I.
Woods in post-bloom bristle and sway
slow draws through-over-around
each a perfect perch
with just beyond more of the same
a series of infinitely small moments
further halved
never quite to a stop, a sad reticence
at cessation always blazing new ways
to that massif in the room.
II.
The other night after three AM
a bird sang from the bushes
outside a window full-throated
in pitch black, filled, embedded
there I think he was jonesing for
sunrise.
Like a monastery bell at vespers
a candle, the bird only hinted
never told outright a guarantee
of another rotation and then
I realized we were both awake.
