The starlings vanished. They were there,
Poking through the grass blades, with forward-
Back-darting beaks—then: Gone. Now gray
And brown juncos have taken their place.
Black-purple silver sheen blossoms fill the air
With sweetness at night, so dark and so small
They go unseen until they fall, dot the walk.
The red of the pomegranate bloom turns
Inward, becomes the red of the fruit; different
Reds turning. When the wind shifts to the south,
It has the sea in it, a softer sound
Than this, and sometimes brings rain, just in time.
The world, it glistens and creates, it burns
And changes, transitions: All things, they rise.