He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass.

.

Beware the ides of march
a blunt bit of soothsaying

still vague as rain
but more than most

of us get–

.

a proper rain today
the lawn waterlogged

sober and calm
sometimes

I underestimate the gray
and its singular

inward focus

.

the flute-like call
of some bird

falls through
an open window

almost cold enough out
to warrant shutting it

but the keen
throaty aria

gives me pause

.

nothing moves
besides the rain

drops triggering branches
beading on the eaves

a natural caesura
it would be a mistake

to play through it

.

but then again
and for what little

they are worth
the only presentiments

we listen to
tend to be our own