Why do the birds chirp? What secret is beholden to the weight of a feather, drifting lazily through the morning breeze?
Why does the sun rise? What wisdom is spoken by the daybreak slowfalling upwards from the horizon, heralding another morning?
Why do I err? What within me holds to its own, reaching out only to fall back again upon clumsy devices?
What should I say? What words without which I, wound about, would walk alone, if only to discover the muse?
These things I contemplate, while I await the answers in the form of wafting clouds, or words which become them, if only to dissolve again into the midnight azure -
