The visions of this morning put to words,
in vain attempt to memorize the scene,
is all about the presence of the birds:
a hummingbird that matches fuschia’s green
and darting hovers dancing in the air,
and then a fair of seven matching crows,
a gathering once notable and rare.

Perhaps Tiresias its import knows,
but I am only witness to the sight,
as yet unversed in omens, dreams and signs.
I am but a walker in the light
that morning after storming sideways shines
and slips and probes and penetrates the gray,
in movement like a hummingbird today.

(This one was published in the August edition of Cyclamens & Swords)