Sunday chill morning looking outside.
The sky turns greyish black and the
birds are waiting silent still in the garden.
The storm begins and the growing
wind whips the frenzied rain across
the garden stark and green, dripping,
in this season of loneliness, looking
through the sheet of rain-soaked
glass that keeps the manic rain away.
And then, with just a turn of the
skittish wind, the sun emerges in
surprise, and the birds come out from
the wet chill to fly from tree to tree
as if nothing has passed but the cycles
that shape and guide their flights from
hatching till the natural course of death.
I whisper to myself: such is this life,
as from my window I see the trail of a
plane white in the bluish sky.