The sunrise is also the red rose bush, listen —
a Black-headed Grosbeak keeps calling, calling.
The clouds which drifted silently through the night
left the sky. They’re in the oven with Cherry scones.
The texture of the morning air prompts memories
of another place, a land he had never seen,
yet he was sure he had been there.
If it was just loneliness, there was always the music.
Perhaps music was the only lasting contribution
they would make before the extinction.
It will float gracefully through the solar system,
long after its makers become as immortal as dust.
Because everything keeps changing, he suspected
his destiny was to leave the body somewhere
and not come back for it, ever.
He thought that everything would join him,
the whole world would vanish like a soap bubble.
Then he realized that there was one more thing.
It is the way the light gleams just before it goes out.