rain or shine, the pine siskin has a task: one by one, take each and every seed in the thistle feeder out and drop it to the ground below, while the orange crowned warbler sings, and sings, and sings.
The dim-lit river mirrors skimming swallows Against the last of sunset’s fading gold, And twilight shadows brim the waiting hollows With quiet beauty that no words may hold. Across my mind -unconjured, undirected- Travel desires and dreams like mirrored buds. Vague thought, and visions momently reflected, Evading all my clumsy nets of words: I am not indolent, but wherefore try To net these in a rhyme, only to shiver The jewels with the mirror? Let them fly Like phantom swallows on the tranquil river, And fade as fast -they are more beautiful Than muddy stirrings on a troubled pool.