Passing Time

The blackbirds and crows
walk the lengths and depths
of my gardens and yard

each morning and evening.

They do not trill and let their voices
quaver like a thrush or grossbeak.
The drama is not in the sound for them,
but in the movement of their bodies
on foot

searching like shoppers
lost in the market,
waiting to find inspiration
in food or  with strangers in the aisles
of produce or near the bakery.

They tread the grass perimeter 
looking for bugs and drink the silence of dew
on single blades of grass
until the sun burns the wetness of the new day
into vapor making the light decay

with the sweetness
of all that meditation
and in the mystery
of passing time.