Circumspection on a quiet day

Silence and the grey still
Air, winding white
Smoke rises in indifferent
Drifts, clouds of hanging
Shape and tone - a fire
Spits red somewhere -
And the mottled sky
Barely moves at all, the
Bowls and ridges en masse
One homogenous press of
Lilac-blue, crowding into lines
At the edge of land.

The day is horizontal
A mere drift of its own bland
Thought, it dozes inward
Replete and lethargic
Muffles us, the busy people.

Inside my tall tower
I gaze out at the greyness
The town stillness and the dim
Illumined briefly
By one bright beam.
Mandolins are playing
Curved space encloses and
Moves in ... I am
Going to California with an
Aching in my heart ...
And all things drift away
Endlessly
Towards change.  All life crowds me
On such a day

To a thin blue line at the end of land,
An evershifting perspective 
On which I stand and play my part.

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