The cloud turns its face. The birds
tumble out, wing by wing.
Few are watching—
only the trees see air shift to feather,
vapor to claw. Someone
whistles by the river. His tune,
meandering between the flocks of grackles,
slips through their beaks
and dislodges birdseed. The breeze
caws, hoots, and flaps away.
The river is full of more fish. The current
flaps with silver and scales.
The wildflowers lift their noses
and sniff, whiskers twitching—
dirt melts under foot. Frogs
fall from the trees, their eyes
amber with memory. Someone
loses his whistle. His voice
cracks, deepens, and fades away. . .
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