On Listening to Some Poetry

I was looking at a mountain and listening to the low hum of traffic and hearing the thin and scratchy voice of a poet reading his poem

Maybe it was about bees and maybe it was about soldiers and maybe it was about me listening to that poem in that moment, where flowers and green things and something papillated, probably kiwi fruit

There are some clouds in the sky and that ever present flag and water and the trees and constantly moving cars and bikers and walkers and nothing’s static at all, not even that mountain, probably

A stork? yes, somehow a stork flew by, it’s curvular gullet so strange and elegant and out of place here where I live

The poem’s been over for a while now I’ve just been thinking about rewinding

Or maybe not

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