for j.t.

Some know how the grass grows green and the
angle a hawk flies through the sky — blue for a
textbook reason, where the sun burns to specification
even when it rains. Some know how the sky glows
orange on humid nights, or how a star can shine
behind the moon, or how the leaves turn themselves
into autumn and explode in color by committee.

Some walk and see sunlight hit the waning hillside,
and watch the wind yell to the morning sun and
find where the trees talk in hurried whispers,
as the land arises in communion with the sky,
where the past slams around into the future,
and all melts into songs without words, a harp
at night or morning trumpets blasting soundless.

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