Picture: Allée au parc de Saint-Cloud by Henri Rousseau
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Watch it fall on the trees
Like oil on smooth, brown skin.
Watch it provide a frame
For bird-talk mingled with song,
The song of a foreign tongue.
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The Silence Underneath All Sounds
Easily sifts through the mesh
Of physicality;
Matter beautifully
Questions itself, its own reality.
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A ruffled magpie lands tentatively
Among jolly cooings and flapping wings,
Then off again! While woodpigeons,
Plump and majestic, tilt their way
To Nature’s ever-present buffet.
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A slow, delicate wind, carrying
Molecules of pleasant nature
Slides
Across green slides
Of grass intermittently, harmonically.
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That’s when the nightingale
Fades in and out of the hedges,
Like a vision unseen
By the francophone au-revoir
Unfolding beneath maple, linden, and thorn.
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City streets and alleys waive their drumming
Naturally,
Leaving room for peace,
Birds,
And Sunday sunlight.
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Herons