(see Surrealism under essays posted 2/8/16)
On Tuesday while walking,
I ran smack into the sky.
Dazed. Bruised.
Instantly my head filled,
first with amazements,
then amusements,
then algorithms.
Next,
a cup of black coffee gave birth to a crow.
“Pretty bird, pretty bird,” I said.
“Pretty bird.”
The crow, not used to compliments, blushed,
shiny black turned into rich red.
Cardinals came to welcome a new brother,
and felonious blue jays, and brown wrens.
Immediately,
I realized I had witnessed a miracle.
I applauded loudly,
clapped and clapped,
whistled and cheered,
until an officer of the law pointed to a sign:
NO
MIRACLE
ZONE
I had not seen the sign.
If I had,
there would have been no red crow,
no need for raucous celebration.
I thanked the officer and left.
But I was not grateful.
2016