Music of the Spheres

I close the blinds over the town outside, 
where the raindrops have clawed at the window,
where the air is slicked with mist that missed
the storm this morning. I close them over
a family of turkeys and a hawk
squawking, flaunting how the air accepts his 
wings. How bronze they would be if my eyes could 
stomach the sight, the imprecision of
vision in love, the quietest silence.