The Natural Order
From the top of a distant range
looking as if the earths muscle and bones
were stretching, arching its spine
clouds drift as snow might over and down
in some seasonal shift,
I sit, not grasping so much
the enormity of it all,
or anything, as it seems compressed
held curled, almost fetal
in my front row seat.
A bird, perhaps as lost as I
lands on the porch rail
while squirrels chatter
and squabble over cones dropped
from a pine, and acorns dug
from an ancient oak, with no voice
of it's own, perhaps feeling as I do
about life in slow motion, moving
fast forward as if in film frames passing, missed
are clipped to some cutting room floor.
Posted because of a suggestion of a friend
Copyright © Dallas Connery | Year Posted 2013
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