Pond Song 4.7

“We do not open ourselves; being opened, we are as an opening.” William Desmond Reader 202

packed snow on the pond path__a duck’s print  hard as a fossil

the mallard roots in the soft bank  __snow on the tip of his bill

something strange this cold Sunday__the grey above an apple tree

bent by snow twists and darkens__a murmur of birds comes to be

shape-shifting continuously__mind-blowing and mind-bestowing

the inner pattern of the flock__the spaces between them flowing