You glance and see nothing:
twigs, limbs, a havoc of tumble and risk,
spindle and skewer, and then light
shifts, leaves twitch, something woody drops,
and now there’s a bird, a bird from
nowhere, concealed by nothing
but what’s always been there.
A sparrow, you think, watching it
bend and lean, splashed and
slashed with rust, black, white,
worrying its beak on the branch,
and now there are two, three,
forming themselves like splintered apparitions,
resolved like soft bombs tossed and waiting,
cryptic, ticking, aware of the air,
primed to fall or flash, surrendered
to the hour’s sudden truce
as you slip away,
© M Wms 2022
I’ve had that exact experience, but couldn’t have expressed it.
I love that.