Treading water

 

Treading the mint of the buttercupped path

between foxtails and slender threads of flax,

pieces of fallen sky,

through a symphony of birdmusic,

I say I will not let the pains, divers et varies,

parasite the gold and the singing.

But there is a change in the wind,

magpie chatter and the shadow of the buzzard

turn the bright orioles’ song to apprehension.

My step falters

and the pieces of sky are still fallen.