The Reverberate Hills; or The Apotheosis of the Narwhal

under hazy skies long shadows of the dry grass dead end of summer

skyline silhouette unreal over the waters the darkening sky

a bird and a cloud the bird flies off with a squawk the cloud floats away

there she sits again solo in the restaurant with her New Yorker

those leaves turning brown: is it the summer heat or the approach of fall

early morning heat cats slip into the cool shade the birds are silent

nothing more than this: light falling on a petal falling on a stream

outside the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, June 2017

crowds milling about confused and curious streets clouds pass overhead

resting on the ground a single feather, so soft, so solitary