Even balancing on one foot like a tao-tao in a rice paddy
I could not stand on the pine’s prickly pinnacle:
No, not on short, bothersome green needles
too weak to support one of my hundred pounds;
But blacker, than I, and featherlight,
Watch that bird.
He, from his penthouse, scans the relic plaza;
The huddling autos on the adjacent highway, and
The escapees who intermittently sink in Dundas St.
The rain has paused. Only paused.
And in the pause blows the wind. Hard.
Before long, those thick grey clouds will re-open,
Bringing wriggling forth,
the plump composters below,
aka manna, to the beaked.
Till then, we sit in wait,
Each silently projecting his own mind.
One expecting the enemy to surprise and beat him down violently;
The other attuned to the wise, rhythmic nature of things;
For which enemy is so obliging as to green tomorrow’s grass?
That rain seems a co-creator,
Fostering the most and the least of us,
The first and the last.