like a curious dart
connecting invisible dots
across the sky,
a collage of
frozen frames- a beak,
a wingtip, an eye-
excerpted from whirling Possibility,
a solitary thrush
comes in for a landing
on a crackling braid of steel,
a stranded iron dance hall
populated by troupe after troupe
of Hertzian dervishes,
a fire brigade of
opening, blooming, and then
into electric echoes.
Twenty stories above the desert floor,
head cocked and waiting,
grooves in the live wire clutched
in its tiny talons,
our thrush watches
the approach of another.
The sun melts onto the horizon
like a scoop of volcanic ice cream
softening at the edges, seeping
along the contours of the landscape
in glowing rivulets.
Together, they listen.
Deep in the wire,
down through its flowers,
past the roots and into its marrow,
are the harmonics of thoughts.
The pulsating wire is a conductor
traversing cities and towns,
routed in and out of homes, through rooms,
closets and kitchens, humming
in silent factories, postal offices,
server rooms, lighting panels, and
desktop lamps, its fruits plucked
and carried off in micro devices
that leave full and return hungry,
and always down past the roots
and into its marrow there gather
the whispers that leak from human hearts.
Wavelets of desire, of hope, of doubt,
of wonder, joy, and sorrow-
caught, received, accepted, taken in
into, within, along the buzzing channel,
ushered by troupe after troupe
of watchful electric dervishes they pass
directionless beneath the roots
of endless flowers
until they shunt down wires
sunken down, deep, into the earth.
Every memory, feeling, question,
impression, every quantum
The first thrush (Hafiz)
leaps into the air.
The second thrush (Rumi)
plunges forward into a diving swoop.
Beings such as these don’t need to sit
on a live wire to get the evening’s news,
it is so delicious to sit with a friend,
to leap into the air and fly,
to be motionless, even as you are borne along
by the never-ending current of Life.