A cloud spelled out a rune I couldn’t read
fast enough before it morphed into
another form that changed again, so I
recited something true enough from an ancient
book: “The wind blows to the north and turns
to the south; round and round it goes.” The screen
went blank and then the slip. No matter, I thought,
I’ll drive a truck. “The clouds are codes for reading
the blues,” I said beneath my breath as I
walked out into the rain with my umbrella
and attitude that kept me lean if un-
employed. A hermit thrush reported the dusk
somewhere in the woods on my way home and I
called back like a human bird who’d lost his wings:
“Light is such a fickle thing but I sing for it.”