Forever a Foreigner

In closed, warm rooms, made with hands
doors guard borders,
dividing space.
Creak! 
heralds my egress into 
Out. 

Creation sprawls open,
cool swirling.
Damp gentles the air.
Fingers of filtered blue creep from the east,
but the moon does not know.
Bathed in borrowed light
she gleams brighter than the lamppost,
whiter than snow.
Riding high in the West, 
she dreams in her endless Night,
dancing with the world He made.

Peaceful? Quiet?
No!
Men wait till dawn's work is done.
Birds wait for nothing, 
not even the sun.
Birds twitter, chirp, and trill,
all chatter and hurry,
zipping
under the moon
in the dark of the dawn. 
Story-book birds,
robins, crows, bluejays, and wrens.
Cacophony! 
A higher world is theirs.
When winging, the ground 
is the lowest
of possible destinations.

Trees stand naked, stripped of glory.
Gone the leaves, gone the flowers.
But no!  
Twigs edge the sky, 
intricate black lace.
Each tree shows off its figure,
each silhouette the Architect's pattern.
Trunks form a lattice-work,
through which to view
Glory!
The East, that living painting, 
it breaks out with a flourish:
molten orange, rose, fuchsia, clouds shouting:
"Sun cometh!"

The hawk leaps from her tree
into the sky.
She cries,
strong, piercing,
wings working, 
shaping the wind. 
Then she tucks them in close 
and dives 
through space.
Again. Over rooftops.
Flap, flap, flap--
dive!
Why cry, bird of prey? 
Rabbits run on the lawns.

Off comes hat,
gloves, jacket.
The sun, worn out
with the glory of his birth,
rests behind clouds.
Bright dawn melts to
grey morning.
I go to the border,
and pass. 
Out-doors
to in-doors.