The clarinet is a willful thing; it’s played the same notes
upon this man at the corner for years.
I see hawks and foxes in the city these days.
And the lawyers keep building new dens, looking east.
The sun sends one by one its patient photons to strike
and strike and strike. A little rain still falls.
The concrete of the sidewalk is cracked now
under the impact of feet and fallen apple blossoms.
I see no reason for preference between soil and stone;
the wind will compose its clarinet eulogies from each.