The still pond in its rested state sings
With sun-sparkling glints heralding spring.
Birds land and take off again,
Content whether on the ground or in the air,
As elsewhere women and men hustle through swarming streets
In pursuit of antiquated notions of happiness,
While ancient Buddhas disguised as homeless drunks
Sit against grafittied walls with knowing half-smiles,
Welcoming the warmth of the season.

I welcome the sound of a bird behind me in the Utahan morning
With its owl-like hoots, and I think of the owl,
Seeing in the dark; and myself,
Writing in the pre-dawn darkness.
What owlish spirit soars out of me
When the world is dark with half-remembered dreams?