The beauty of bird, flower,
the wrought eyries of men:
stacked upward as eagles nest
in stone and glass cliffs, to affront the wind,
the wind, whirling residues of thought.
Stairs clamber above the
street dweller’s eye line,
through forests, mountains, pastures, fields:
grown and harvested, quarried, bought and brought here.
In the evening the sun descends,
between window panes, blinds shuttering.