The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, October 1, 2021

Timid as Any Herd Animal

That bright of the blue sky variety
raising every racket of mower
and blower, backhoe and whacker,

not to mention every street's hatch
of after-school slammers and high-pitched
trampoliners. O just a while longer,

a day, maybe three, give them
a rest. Have the hammocks hold fast
and the bark remain in the dog.

Have the thinnest veil of dusk,
fog, or drizzle, call stillness
near, her sister, silence, here.

--Derek Sheffield 

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