My hat
with sheen of dew
alit with silver, my age
a bottle half-full,
dogwoods susurrus
and tumbling their answers

to my questions unasked,
I receive
even when not looking, and the poesy
of these deafless footsteps,
my path hears the unconscious spring

of my drifting
vaguesome nature, where does the secret
and proclamation meet

in these boundless patterns
and infinite lines,
can I not find
the moving bird
hidden in the sky?