Bird chatter; a grey sky; and thoughts of things.

what thing is there to adhere to, in a promise, except that slippery fount of hope itself that’s like a water serpent in our double grip?

she was so fast & perfect
all the time

Not gone yet, but going

Did the sea recognize the cloud
As its own face, but without the scorn?

Nearing the crest was the hardest.
I recall viewing it from far away
as if it were only a simple prospect
& not a hard fast guarantee