The raptor rides the updrafts, holding court high above the hills. Clouds crowd the horizon, like a promise or a threat. Crows are drifting towards their roosts. Everyone has somewhere better to be. Everyone has to say their part. It is a busy picture, if anyone is left to count.
My vision is bordered by windowsills and dashboards. My vision is cropped by brow ridge and tree line and the steam of breathing out of doors. I watch, as if something was going to happen. There is always something there to see. I miss a lot, almost everything slips past my gaze. What I find, I make sure to keep.
Dusk happens again, and I am inside, lit artificially, dull as I look. Bridges burned arise again, one mistake after another. All these birds have better things to do than linger here, all bitter and blue. All these words arriving at long last, late for the moment, crawling up this report. I look up. I look out. As long as these eyes stick to their business, the sky will have something to say.