The phone is dead, dear. Thunderstorm.

Smoothly thoughts swift from seagull to crow to raptor.
No moment between awaking and sleep seems to be on its own,
one thing leading to another: you leave the house in my good faith
and the phone rings for you, dark clouds appear
while the message cuts the bacon of the day like a butcher’s knife.
Rain starts to fall as the words sink in, bullets hitting the roof.
There is thunder. A door slam.
The return of the hawk on the nest. Still wet from the rain,
eager to know if someone has rang, you are back.
In one movement, one murmuration, the day has gone by and
no. No one has phoned I say. The birds in the nest close their eyes.
From hawk to blackbird to lark thoughts smoothly move backwards,
all fade into dreams, resulting in the good of this morning’s innocence.