Anvil Chorus/ watching the birds become

Look up. The sky is rucked
linen, the sky is a plain
above for the birds to strive to.

Watch them gather in grass
and also grow invisible. Watch
them scatter like seeds being

tamed by wind. Some things
seem lonesome until I look
again. The single robin becomes

a round; a feast of movement
that will reorder my eyes
when they have grown too much

like river to see. Tears
are the glassdust
of the unpolished soul. I

do not bother trying
to grasp them. But instead, look up
and let them fall away

as the birds dart toward that high
plain of sky like some
new found constellation.

Author's Note

2021