That zenith flock, flick sunlight through spread wings,
never know what beauty it is they bear:
unwittingly wafers of Ra in air
carried east, though westering sun sings.
A little while flit against that deep tide,
a thousand-mile-an-hour maw, open wide,
wide as blue sky late morning frees of mist.
On shaded swathes of grass, crystals must fuse,
winter sun's fenced from, dark hypotenuse;
each day moon fattens, Venus flees their tryst.
Shuttle treadled over day and night
what thread is thrown across those looms of light?
Perhaps the magpie knows more than a trick,
snapshot resplendently, poised in air,
display of vestments, sanctification rare.
Conduct last rites for littles not so quick?
And so aware of me, my judgement firm:
I point at her, straight armed, and she is gone.
