the clear morning hangs
over you like infinity:    

the taste of coffee
heavy in your mouth


autumn sun guards
your idleness: awed

by the blue ceiling-sky


these mornings are for replacing
rotten fence boards

—if you’re slow enough
it can take until lunchtime

taking care even
to hammer out the nails

putting them in your pocket
because the world is changing fast


two hawks circle
like leaves caught in the miracle
of a twisting spiral of air

each swoop with still wings ends
with a sharp turn of flashing feathers


there’s no inspiration in fear,
in jealousy,
or in halls of Gods

the inspiration is in the rhythm
of movement and its score

and if not that, nothing at all.