driven
by shifting winds
a crow
with white-barred wings . . .
my yearning for omens
who am I
to lose what little
faith I ever had . . .
the redbird still sings
in the apple tree
leaf shadows
shimmer and pulse
on an orb web
shining in morning light—
the clerestory of my mind
she flees
along a silken thread
to lie hidden
in the curve of a leaf,
whoever wove this world
the song
of blade on whetstone
as the meadow
falls to the scythe . . .
nunc dimittis
~Skylark 6:1, summer 2018
