if we could only count the speckles

i. because there was no rain to soak us through

the timid beak of the bathing thrush
concentrically ripples the polished dapples.

the mirrored pool smirks beneath austere maples,
an intrusion of rust forcing the oxbow birth:

there is a current that knows its swirling mind
and will not bend to unbend the cowering mud.

six stark claws leave evidence of lather.

ii. each fluttering wing has a hidden story

one flashing swoop flips a visitation,
blackly tumbling a quilled re-division
for the fossilized flutter of a feathered bed.

latitudes where a fallen bud once made sense
seem to diminish in the gray uncertain moments
and the intoxicating orange of a crisply setting sun:

an idle counting of ones and twos and threes
reflects the breathy throbs of what might be:

an ironic ode to the ocher futilities of shale.

iii. into the quiet thrashing of languid dreams

each drooping laughing half-formed leaf
that spurts to flourish in early spring
becomes a sermon on the mount unheard.

each drip of sap a sticky tear
that runs through the maple eyes
of a world that will never bloom:

a cryptic euphoria that fails each breath
when the end of the clouds is grasped.

your mock apple pie is already being served.