Smudged ink
as wisdom curves into words
as sounds of a violin
play through the radio waves
dissolving
with the drizzling drops of rain
on the roof,
you glance through the fine layers of glass
to see a thousand black dots flying eastward,
crows moving like the commuters
on the Interstate —
all as one, but each
one
as one
within
a microcosm of silence
as each flap of a wing,
every rotation of a tire,
every quick thought that rolls through your mind
like lightning — a streak of genius — sudden,
and then gone,
as darkness
settles once more
over the wet farmlands
and the deep taproots of oak seedlings
are finally soaked
with rain,
much like my fingers stained
by this smudge
of
black ink.
Copyright 2017 © Jessie Zanita Wright
Photo Credit: Comfreak/Pixabay
