The Brownian motion of a mass of children
you might mistake for random dancing
cold beside a line of still
buses waiting on the first day of December.
A woman counting out loud to a known number
I do not know until she comes to it
and the children flow before the buses go
to some place I know as nothing more than
away from here.
A dog more Chihuahua than not
wears a bronze bell I carried home from Lhasa
that rings a prayer every morning walk. He is
the incarnation of a young Lama for whom
the one hundred and eighth clear tone signifies
desire to hear one more, and he
knows he is and will be
Red berries glance through a window
bright in morning sun, wait for snow.
Lobelia blue on green leaves gray now fades slow.