After a much too-heavy meal,
we went to the park to walk
  around a bit
    and to talk — 
and I wondered
        if I'd see
  any birds,
     straggling,
           this close to winter.

We walked the boardwalk
        over the cattails
and took the path
        out to the meadow
   and back again.

I never did go
   to that party
        the previous night — 
my friend who'd invited me
  called me early
     to apologize — 
she had been so overwhelmed with work
        and one thing had lead to another,
but it didn't matter — 
  in the tapestry of clouds,
I saw the moon,
        a constellation of stars. . .

I mention this to you,
        these moments in passing
  these passages
             these refrains — 
    to see
          is to create — 
I mention this to you now
  as someone who believes
                in accidents
  in Fate
          in Fortuna.

I write this
          as someone
     waiting
              for your next missive.

This morning
    I walked by the park
     at the end of my street — 
the trees
    were like old men
                standing on the hill,
  talking about nothing
            and smoking cigarettes — 
  the sky 
            had that hue to it
    a smoldering quality
          which is gray
                        and languid
    and which also
                to the informed mind
         whispers
              whispers

I looked at them
      crossed the street
    and went on.