A blessing in the moving shadows on my face,
The shadow of a murder of crows, off
There, they know where. The crimson gladiolas
Tip in the neighbor’s yard, threaten to break
Under the weight of red-engineered blossoms.
At my feet a smooth brown stone—I seek a cause:
Wind? Rain? Water? It all amounts to time.
When the nothing comes from shadows,
When the nothing slides under the belly of the worm,
What glory in the shadowless goldfinch wings.
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