Looking, waiting, watching.
Something I don’t know.
Arrving at the hour of a witching, in the dust of the streets,
As winter rolls in, on light feet,
Sentinels, Sentries, Sentient.
They glide, to land
Then balanced, poised, a sit/stand; enabled by a delicate balancing
Or a sporadic, halting, flapping, calling out-
That is to say; Some are struggling.
In the distance, smudges on the horizon;
Fires rising towards the skies,
Water falling to quench dry earth,
Wind participating, somehow, to the artist’s eye,
Or, raindrops are going around, down, to the ground.
Dark eyes nestle, mounted with bright raiment,
Black, as oil, not as night and shimmering.
Fascinating.
Looking, waiting and watching,
Something, I don’t know,
Many things – breakfast perhaps, or a predator dark, un-shown.
As winter rolls in, young now grown,
Mothers, children, friends,
They mark time, wait.
And what of I?
Unknown, dark, predatory.
I am like the metal in the sky
Poised, useful, purposed,
Delicate, flapping, struggling.
Water falling towards….
Sentient, perhaps or guided by
Instinct, which we have to fight to survive.
Honesty, which we have to fight to survive.
By crowing about success.
