Outer Sights and Inward Visions

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Outer Sights and Inward Visions




The sun is warm.
We walk on the sidewalk
as the cars drive by with,
their snooty, tooty horns.

The trees wave elegant limbs
that bow and churn in the air.
Their leaves flash and flicker
with a look-at-me ripple.

A brown speckled bird
with white-tipped wings
alights on a wobbly wire,
an acrobat that dances.

A lone monark butterfly
with stained glass window,
orange and black wings
cruises through the air.

One crow, shiny with black,
calls out a territorial scold.
"Caw, caw, caw," he lectures.
Alone, I would answer him.

We walk in a friendly quiet,
three humans in inward thought.
Only when we end our walk
do our words begin again.

My daughter speaks first.
"It's noisy and smoggy.
I hate days like this with
cigarettes butts everywhere."

My brother agrees and
complains of some poop,
pointing it out so we'll see
it's right beside the road.

I look away not wishing to speak
of how lovely our walk has been.
For I know it's trite to speak of
clouds streaking the blue of sky.

And besides, I've been told
more than once, of course,
that I horribly fail at seeing
the world as it really is.


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