Some might see portents in such things, but all I see is my imagination doing what it has always been wont to do: seeing things in other things, making empty metaphors with no context. Crab and birds, not bringing news of the future but reiterating the past. I don't know that seeing shapes in clouds is much different than falling asleep on a hot afternoon and forgetting my dreams. They seem equally devoid of meaning.
Had I not slept so long I might have gone out, and perhaps something would have happened— though the odds are against that— but it was too late. Instead I sat under the darkening sky from which clouds were vanishing and listened to the real mockingbird sing a series of songs. It was hot and the air was still and I imagined the quiet that would exist farther away from the freeway. The bird's music was more profound in that imaginary quiet, and my brain had no urge to make any empty metaphors. Perhaps it had fallen asleep again. I should try not to wake it. It would just annoy me.
by Linda Gregg
All that is uncared for.
Left alone in the stillness
in that pure silence married
to the stillness of nature.
A door off its hinges,
shade and shadows in an empty room.
Leaks for light. Raw where
the tin roof rusted through.
The rustle of weeds in their
different kinds of air in the mornings,
year after year.
A pecan tree, and the house
made out of mud bricks. Accurate
and unexpected beauty, rattling
and singing. If not to the sun,
then to nothing and to no one.