What is it about cloudy springtimes that prophesy some
some unpardoned infliction?
Perhaps it is the flowers,
blooming silently in their waxy delicacy,
peering with expectation
at the watery gray delight of sky-borne promises.
Is it rather crows,
roaming the spaces between sky and earth,
calling primal, undignified,
the ugliness of their songs
like water filling porous rocks–
an erosion of sound,
an inkblot on the wind?
Is it trees, leafy, burdened with
green and bustling purpose,
fluttering noisily in northern breezes
and then, just before dusk,
Is it the nearness of faces,
awash in the crispness of gray light and thunder
bundled to eyes in black clothes,
conspicuous eyes made of a curious haste,
darting every so often
toward the clouds?
©K Paige Medina 19 April 2017