Under The Overpass

The day has its own song
that drones inaudibly
in the background.

The mountains sleeping in their black forests
and the birds watching the valley
from undefined perches in the distance.

The drone of the suburbs below
sprawled out in their snake cul-de-sacs
with the people hidden in identical houses
doing undefined things
in our imaginations.

The sound of the small city
moving lazily under slow cloud drifts
always casting undefined shapes
over everything.

The day moves to its own music
—the sound of an animal sleeping
tossing in its own dream.

There is a silence
behind the noise of the mundane
that has its own sound
that can be heard
only once the silence is heard.

The sound of the planet turning through space.

A wildflower,
blooming under an overpass.

Grey on Grey

We try not to talk about the weather
but then it slips out.

Is there something being said, we wonder
as the huge clouds vanish the mountainsides
then move on.

As the arms of mist coil around dark trees
then rise to their disappearance.

All of these mysteries kept under the canopy
of simple phrases.

Brisk utterances of “It’s cold out.”
Sparse sentences about the likelihood of rain.

We move about the town with our umbrellas poised.
Cloud shadows following us through parking lots.
Mountains slipping into general mists.

The grey is coming and we head indoors
to watch it take over from behind windows.

As the spaces between clouds are covered up by more clouds
and the world outside drifts into a uniformity
of grey on grey.

We watch the outside with something warm
cupped in our hands and the steam
rising over our faces.

The trees swaying slightly from their parking lot holes.
The black umbrellas finally in bloom.