The sun wanders towards the west
hunkering down below the horizon,
the world replete in silhouette and
wing, crows calling out quitting time
while the sky switches skins, smoke
curling in the myth of mapping the wind.
The din of the uncut day spent in weed
whackers and traffic, home another name
seeking harbor in our loosened parlance,
these eyes opened wide to
the blindness, machines singing
We are here, we are here!