The goldfinch is just a shape in the fig tree,
a density among the leaves, which I know
by their shape, & the fig-shaped figs
that the goldfinch is eyeing,
wondering, like me, when
they’ll be ripe.

The cardinal in the gingko, calling for a mate—
I know him not by his famous bright color
but by his spiky punk haircut,
his bandit’s mask
& his song.

It’s all black & white cinema, whites & grays
floating in a lake of Rembrandt dark.
It’s what I’ve have to work with,
what I’ve been given to make
the most of.

The profile of low-lying clouds lit from below at sunset, 
the outlines of waves as they crash on a beach,
your eye like a black plum
in a bowl of cream.