there upon an outstretched finger
sits a bird
black against the thickness of white
a white so silent, so still, so cold, so
waiting
it penetrates, clarifies the bones of existence
this black bird silhouetted, fixed, lifeless
except for its preening
would be invisible if it were twenty feet away
for the mist after the snow after the night after the morning’s drizzle
lingers, enigmatic thoughtful philosophizing; plumes of creation
is this the only bird left
it cannot be for I heard their songs
waking me from beneath my own thoughts
yet here I sit watching this solitary creature, preen its life away
faint motions beyond this stalagmite
reveal the truth of my inability to reach beyond perceptions
for there, a moment it flashed; a white, whiter than the mist
off it goes to perch upon a finger twenty feet further away
and yet I see its white; pure, perfect against the white
; the shadow of the black. Echoes in the mist
A Gap In The Clouds 