A breeze decides to rise, filling the moonless hours, and is invisible except where the pines it moves cause the stars to flicker. The pines themselves are barely to be seen but by this slight movement, being no more than deeper darkness than the surrounding night. But all the space between them is filled by their sighs as the motile air caresses them. That space is roofed with the constellations of late winter, and I see the little dipper, upended, as though it had spilled the last drop of the season's rain. I hope not, surely, though tonight, washed by this soft air, it is difficult to even imagine rain. The clarity, though dark, is brilliant, each tiny light perfectly displayed, as on black velvet a jeweler might display an array of diamonds. Somewhere to the north I hear the high-pitched, descendant glissando of some bird, repeated again and again. It is as sharp and clear as the stars.
The Good Life
by Mark Strand
You stand at the window. There is a glass cloud in the shape of a heart. The wind's sighs are like caves in your speech. You are the ghost in the tree outside.
The street is quiet. The weather, like tomorrow, like your life, is partially here, partially up in the air. There is nothing you can do.
The good life gives no warning. It weathers the climates of despair and appears, on foot, unrecognized, offering nothing, and you are there.