Dozens of seagulls crisscross the sky…
One image yields many impressions:
A circling for meat.
An energy field.
A point on the grid where I join in the dance.
An intelligent line,
Or maybe the painter is capricious,
Another Picasso brushstroke on white sky.
It came without plan. It leaves without warning.
The mind only widens.
The tracks on the ground are inside the eyes
Connecting the snow and the skies.
The chaos and structures are there to resolve,
To completed thoughts,
Encircling the whole,
Yet nothing
Is ever
Missing.
