Here as I go, no song bird calls to me. Yet this emptiness cannot turn white silence into a lament. Even when history dies, nothing falls into the literal. Blue winter skies invent the future clean as mountain water cupped within the hands and lifted to the mouth. I survive, finding the lovely and the funny - one. My clothes grow quainter as I amble north. I'm not looking down.
For the first time I'm seeing. At last the news behaves. The seasons meld. I wave the moon awake with sudden the vision of a summer child.