For weeks the Words were everywhere.
Creating their own syllabic rhythm and take.
Landscape to letters. Look up. Write down.
Suffering of the would-be-mindfully-aware.
Static of muse on the still morning air.
Cackle of grackles and barking of dogs.
Stillness is not a word. Emptiness either.
Look and listen. Cormorant glide?
Frost in the shadow of a curled brown leaf?
Now they are gone. Just when I was beginning
to understand. Words are nowhere to be found.