Crows float up

from the alley

between edifices

               wind-slicked

casting no shadows

in the half-dusk

               before dawn.

Between the stones

there is water

from rain in the night.

               It is invisible—

only in thought

will I see its gleam.

The end of the lane

                 approaches

and thought fills

the street, which is

black geometry drawn

on powder-blue,

with what may be,

which being, seems.

Walls wipe back

and King’s Parade

                 appears.

Only in thought

exists the passage.

Only in thought

does being seem.

Think of the crows

who do not seem

                 nor seem to be

nor dream of seeming.

Parceled darkness

are they, and after

                   dawn become

mere portions of day.

If I were a bare eye

                    I might learn

to be a featureless

bird of early morning

and cast no shadow

across my own passage.