Split a dragonfruit
down its bright middle.
Inside you’ll find
the belly of a wood thrush,
black spots trembling with song.

Watch a black cloud
until lightning cracks it open,
traces shatter marks
across the ground,
like the earth is an egg, fragile,
its insides pale white and
dandelion yellow,

twirled on stems
by tiny fingers,
petals held to tiny chins

or breathed in white puffs
into the air,
earth seeds that scatter, ethereal,
that float like feathers
or a thrush’s scaling song.