Three Windows

I look out the first window
And seeing is what I see.
A branch tearing from the locust
Leans in on the glass,
Will be tied to higher branches
When they chop the thing up.
How many times have the doves
Left their mauve dust
After crashing into the pane?
At times I can hear the wind squeak
On the glass and, between winks,
The sun will flare and blind.
There is no window, no blind,
There is only the knowing blink.

There, out the second window,
In the moon dark the red fox
Precedes its brush thick tail
Into the brush behind the garden.
The screech owl whirs.
The sparrows hide from both
In the heart of a tree that I
Might one day take a flashlight to.
The owl and the fox are content
To wait for propitiousness
And a little longer for the lie.
For, out there, there is no end,
No windowpane, nor either.
There is not even me to eye.

Beyond the third window
I am not certain of anything,
Being blind like all who look.
The morning mist nuzzles the glass
Like a breast in a baby’s face.
It is winter and the eye sees green
Through the fog and light through
The green and dark through the light.
Wishful seeing. So, I don’t look out.
Each season has its own fog.
Rising early is rarely rewarded.
There is no fog, there is no name
For what there is, and there is no
Thing that is left for me unguarded.