clouds are low along the rooftops.
They’re grazing on lost bolts and dusty shutters
in the front lawn, muted by a dying orange heap.
We’ve gladly been offering up these nuisances
to the clouds, but seem never to evaporate.
It is gray, but after all
it is a good day, the last
of spring’s leave see-saw on branches,
crusty and rooting for snow.
Imagine it; a tilted gray cast
and perpetual indistinguishable silence
in a myriad of white flakes.
Motion seems still.
It is in this slow descent
that toeing shuffling comes
to a stop,
and looks up:
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