Dragged on down the morning hill by shadows,
the waking songs of love grind us to tears.
So much happens when we’ve got our heads turned.
A sudden silent burst of birds appears.
Bone bare branches wave the clouds like traffic.
Footsteps timed and hands held, we sashay.
Rocks, stones, pebbles, sand, ground all approve this.
Missing stars affirm: gray is okay.