Evening birds are poised
in a moment of stillness,
their alert little heads tilted
to listen for the supersonic,
whistling call that always seems
to come to them from somewhere
beyond the diminishing sunset.
My dark thoughts cannot catch them;
the quick patterns of their flight
into the twilight, bits of black on
clouded blue, are reminding me
again of abstract art, a seemingly
random and disjointed arrangement
that somehow achieves a constantly
changing and perfect balance.
The pointlessness and confusion of daily life is revealed by nature to be full of hidden order and meaning.