Here comes the rush of the morning:

the cold harbor breathes out, and

its current does not waver. No.

It knows exactly where it is going.

Here comes the rush of the hour:

the bold, needle-less limbs of the fir tree

welcoming all guests; its deep, dark

hostels uniting migrants and natives alike.

Note: this tree is not really a fir.

No one minds.

And here comes the rush of the minute:

configurations of worlds climbing over

the peaks of my eye’s vista,

dancing in gravity’s ancient ballroom;

cuddling together for a moment –

a moment that is over too soon. And I?

I, for once, am not in a hurry to do anything.