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From a Restaurant Window
Rain-sounds and traffic-sounds wash-out and mix-with
and distort the sounds of footsteps and silverware,
and a wind-blown rain splatters the window where I watch
shapes and textures transform in rivulets.
A cloud moves and the light weakens, softens. Colors fade.
Distant things lose dimension. Conversation slackens.
Clouds lower and cling to ridges.
Branches of Doug-fir heave
and a curtain of rain impacts the glass.
A white gull blows sideways in the wind.
The blurred lens drains
to return a cloud-cover gray,
the color of everything in evening light.
My breath condenses on my glass
and a vital coolness flows into my chest.
These sensations could have been
elements of unfocused attention,
that strew gray forests on the shore.
Firs pause after each gust, suspended
in that moment after exhalation.
In them, in the day, I seem
to recognize elements of something
I want to feel in a different proportion.
A wind-blown curtain closes over glass.
The rain falls unaccounted for and common.
From a restaurant window, I see the wind buffet evergreens
and feel myself in the day as in a wreath for perception,
an elegy of blue-gray light and the scent of rain.
A Case for the Idols