The late day sun still rages
despite the season and the time,
a balm before the calendar
tries to prove it wrong and
everything is wings—
the bold sparrows and the fitful doves
crowd the feeders and the pines
as the field beyond the fence
reveals the translucent host
glittering in clouds and legions,
stubborn angels of the earth and air
alive and shining and unconcerned
that the end is here. The clock
counts each of us down, birth and
breath and appetite, life ever
the arrow loosed blind in
a world that is only touch and
target, hands reaching as if
the wind would lift them too,
these dreams our flights and feasts
with the bright sunlight
always leaving us to bear
the limits we are given,
the endings we ignore.
