Mourning doves coo out their hidden sorrow. On the ground a flock of robins scavenge, each breast red. Were they born, shot and shattered, to be my winged brothers?

Leaves relay water, the travel downwards is in multiple legs. At each transition, a falling is followed by a shattering. And somewhere in between as water is becoming air I am becoming these words.

At the window a constancy of bark and vine, a Pollock's canvas done with seemingly great ease. But to hear those pigments move with great delibrate slowness I place the ear next to the ground.

I hear life kicking under the membrane. I hear our milky way falling away from other milky wayes? I hear earth and the sun whizzing away from one another.

And admist all this great noise,sometimes I hear myself.