The bird sits on the black branch
growing
into the pearl-gray sky.
Or
does the winter sky sit upon the bird,
the
branch upon the sky?
This
mystical geometry simply appeared
from
nature’s morning mind.
The
branch splits into finer versions of itself,
fractals
that open a door to infinite quest
while
the bird spreads its Rorschach wings,
balancing
the magnetism of east and west.
But
the sky knows only the thoughts of God
and
is perhaps the father of this evolving trinity.
The
bird suddenly bolts, takes wing
from
its temporary still-life perch
as
the branch recoils, contemplates, quivers,
clouds
now twisting into the strangest of rivers.
What
response can be made to these particles-turned-wave?
What
can be made of bird, branch, and sky?
The
beggar, king, prophet, and seer
can
only weep for joy in December’s nave,
can
only launch through parted lips a most ecstatic cry.
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