Spindles of light through cloud.

What part of living is abstract?

Is it love? Or hope?

The lost feathers of gulls mixed up

with leaves and the detritus

of fractured time. In the end,

the birds die, as the swing

of season penetrates the earth,

our bones, the coy science of weather.

Note the motion of the wind,

the character of cat or squirrel.

The same sounds come out of the dark,

the labored breath, the swallow.