ordinary magic

all my winged things: birds, words

always seem to happen only

in momentous mystery

their maps ghostly with emptiness

layered on unknown and 

see-through cities

I wish for real things, the right things

with crescendoes heralding 

their difference

for rolling reflections whispering

the worth of wonder, love, 

forgetting, and loss

I hear someone singing too far away

to know their story, but I can tell 

they're keeping time

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Pic: I was taken by the way the sun was sinking yesterday--through this solitary greening tree between two nondescript buildings...