Tower

Somehow we trust the trees. 

The way they sway 

while standing firm. How once, 

they were taller than 

any tower we could name. 

Tour, tour. Over 

the city they rise like hardened soldiers, 

like sentry stands 

for the thrush and blackbird. 

The blackbird whose eyes 

color as feathers. Whose 

slow movements call him 

back to a beginning. Perhaps 

altered by the passing 

of time, of empire 

as all things have been. 

Over the city, 

the thrush and blackbird 

call out freely. Being wiser 

in the absence of formality. 

Over the city 

the blackbird calls 

stropped, urgent. Witness 

to the restlessness 

of eminent leaves. The dark 

lurch of physicality, 

coming to rest on its knees. 

Helpless, wordless 

in the sweep of things 

unfolding 

as they do. Low, 

lost to reason.

Author's Note

2015