The shuddering creak as distant cranes cry
cracks the opalescent evening open.
We lack the wish or wherewithal to try
untangling the vicious words we’ve spoken.
The trail, though familiar, can still surprise
with nodding onions, or a sudden view
that swallows our silence, and gently pries,
unsettling things that we thought we knew.
It isn’t the weather, or daffodils
that make us remember the world that’s nigh;
it isn’t the space that the crane’s cry fills,
exposing that distance as just a lie.

The marsh birds fill the air with chatter;
we stand, transfixed, in the thrall of matter.