These things moving in wind,
we have names for them. Feather, dust,
bird. That which, now and then, urges leaves
to nudge the moveable branches. Sometimes,
we may even see their quiet collisions,
flecks of sudden and minute life
as this afternoon, sitting on the porch
and watching my wife dusting off blankets,
the sunlight gathering around her lithe body,
our children running under the swayed trees
and the startled birds, the dust swirling joyously
everywhere, celebrating their release. And I am held
in awe of the things that move in the world,
or are moved, and of the privacy of the living,
the many rising objects revealed only by refraction,
and why I just sit here, straining.
