I prefer to loaf and lean
On a weathered fence post
Dividing nothing
From everything else

Over careening forth
Into another's tomorrow
With a brand new fever
In the hilt of my smock

Let them insist
In silent screams
Whether I ought to
Turn or continue

As I stop in awe
At a hovering bird
Waiting in silence
For the moment

The rushing river
Of steel and glass
Is but an aside
To the pitch of the present

The resonant moment
Calling to its bosom
Throngs of listening hearts
Rhythm in vocation