Inversion: air stagnant,
the sun pale as a fish eye,
moon-like, an unspeakable
thought. Everything settles
into the valleys between
these foothills: fog, silence,
hawks. Clouds of boiled
wool, snow-dusted land,
even my thoughts
are dampened–
One bird, and then
another. Tails dipped
in rust, dried blood,
the blank-mirror lake
not unlike a page,
empty acres to fill,
a task or a chance,
like pouring a glass,
or finding sleep,
the readiness is all–
OPTIONAL POETRY 
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“clouds of boiled wool”…that’s amazing.
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This is very piquant, it tastes good, this… I particularly like ‘tails dipped in rust’. ~ P ~
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‘clouds of boiled wool’ ‘fog, silence, hawks’ now thats definitely my kind of expression.. love the depth… silent words are heard the loudest !
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Thank you! Reminds me of Keats, heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter…
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