I hear a flock of crows cry
as they fly above
the Charles Schwab office
in the blackness of
the pre dawn sky.
Invisible from below,
black wings against
the starless black,
is it distress or discovery?
I can not know.
I stop and strain
to see them
but I can't and so
I return my gaze
to what's in front of me;
half a dozen bodies
shrouded in sleeping bags
lined up against the cyclone fence
protecting a construction site
at Main and Howard.
I had been struggling to consider
what beauty means to me,
is it places or faces,
some ineffable harmonies?
I can not know, although,
there are landscapes
that slow my heart
and a face that quickens it,
can the cries of hidden crows
fit somehow within it?
What of the men
and women hidden
in their sidewalk slumber,
what fills their hearts
with joy instead of sorrow?
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