Missing From the Picture

This morning one bird awoke first, breaking the night with a spiral tongue - I was not there. Under the oak tree mud bloomed stars - I was not there. For a while the sky hung as still as a blue prayer I arrived late; I missed that prayer. I was crouched over a few hoarded words; I was shuffling lines on a blank screen, and now it seems to me that I have often been not anywhere near there.