Skylarking

Winds bell-ring the tulips. Racoons hang lazily from eaves watching the watched. Barns are bent into rafts of moss, an age shedding green gathered by crow-footed wanderers. All is a montage of one single facet of day-sprung now. Meadowlarks slip through their own songs I unlimber my gray sticks and stride, my piecemeal mind mended and alight with a bright-eyed flowering. Spring clambers over my bones to chase the wagging tails of barking dogs, sunshine gallops along a paddock fence casting a mirage of painted flickers. Hard to be anything less then my best idea this day. I search for a notion, a reason, a why, only to be scooped-up by a flock of fleet sparrows, their small brown wings going nowhere, yet all of us flying inside a sky-lifting joy.