This cloud blocks the sun!
A wayward waltz gets thicker and thinner,
slow then fast, dives then climbs again,
separates and coalesces.
The way it ploughs furrows through the air,
folds and collapses like a passing breeze,
you want to know why.
What can bring these birds so far
from the straight line proclivities of other birds?
And all I can hear is the wild shudder of wings
as they fly overhead, like a hurricane
beginning its assault.
But it doesn’t last long.
Steady for a while, then a storm inside
flicks its bolts, like a patchwork of shooting stars
directed in unison.
As if there’s nothing to lose but the promise
of attention that held me hostage,
how well it holds me.
Maybe, for the theatrics and the amazement.
I was fixed and I don’t make the slightest sound.
Stephen Cipot
Garden City Park
