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sightings
    I made years ago in the backwoods near Tilbury Ontario,
    birds seem less capable of an outright violent attack in any
    language, One simply remembers a shape among the leaves,
    and it is never the bird in its entirety, a thing in itself, but a
    suggestion, an attitude that leans toward the whole. Their
    unusual forms of communication always correspond directly
    to individual shapes, a series of objects open to interpretation
    instead of a defining mechanism through which facts are stated.
    They are a war with no violence, a peaceful tribe who carry out their
    discussions for the benefit of all without any attempt to triumph
    over their delicate presents. It is certainly a natural enough position,
    for the voice of a carnivore becomes as important as the voice of
    the small berry eaters. Thus no one is afraid to speak. It is
    comforting that each species can exist in order that it might be
    heard alongside all the others rather than against them, and
    similarly, that each song or cry made by any one creates a wildly
    varied universe in which everyone gathers in bunches separately
    causing an overall effect similar to that of a community of writers.
    Lysdexia in Sunlight
    what mournful singing
    in the happiness of change: they
    beat their drums across the cloud-lit skies;
    by calling out our names
    they are assured of an answer in their wingspan
    a note quite high, (not sounded at all within that realm)
    something you can hear uttered just in front
    of the beak, to layer existence before the sound
    itself appears, a priori, but so what:
    their benign overwhelming attention
    can only be explained by
    Mind, not by the songs they sing.
    After the Rain
    After the rain the stink of the lake resides of the lake.
    The good clean stink in the the back of my throat.

    After the rain one can until anything can happen.
    And stare at the wetback surface sit perfectly still.

    When the glass of water becomes the glass of water.
    The only think left to think:

    After the rain nothing can ever sit quite through it.
    When a bird goes so still as the sky.

    â€˜Gull sit on lake fine.
    And it’s after rain.’

    After the rain no one’s still day. Quite
    so nowhere. It’s a mind ever goes.

    Even the rain felt straight down to strike the surface.
    Ninety degrees of the lake.
    Notes on Flight
    here
    love them because
    here they are
    not here

    every being faces
    many directions
    with a face
    to the sky

    my wife sleeps
    her head
    the top of it
    points up to
    them hello
    miles and miles
    away

    east night first
    then western crackle (&
    the greens become several shades
    of blue, music obviously)
    layered in the orange
    orchid tufts going
    to sleep

    no moon
    almost present
    a sliver to speak
    as it shares stars
    with shapes and
    shifters
    the quiet
    songs

    cloudsex:
    soft lightning
    stroking the wet
    gas light

    feel them
    moving in the
    trees

    jokes on you in the morning
    when they aren’t around it’s you
    who aren’t so asleep or breathe in
    the open eye WAKE UP

    the feather ere
    ates connexion
    turbulence, a
    worl(d) wind
    the mind read
    ily accepts
    collage/com
    pression in
    time

    mine breathe
    you say yours can do anything, mine
    mine breathe

    if there are none look to the horizon
    to see something of them, time held
    on a refractory note until they gather
    for you are inside the chest not the
    head but in the chest where you are alive
    look deep into their soft barricades
    Float/Set
    swimming at dusk, the water
    feels like air, tho it cups the
    balls more gently, holds them where
    the careless gravity of the lake seems
    to halt, and can float quietly, a
    point of departure to wake up
    those orange wisps and ochre folds
    of cloud strings from across the water
    that hang before the red sun wash and
    that silence the lake is fumbling for
    turns them into the circular motions
    we make, both above and below the horizon
    sound to hold our dark hovering limbs
    Seasonal Drift
    August contemplation of