This day light see-saws,
shift­ing cool-cen­tered pearl
to silver.
This day,
warm orange
etch­es shadows
over the bloom­ing stone.

on 94th street;
tough city sycamores
con­sid­er buds,
and the black cramp­ing arc
of win­ter’s haggishness.

Root­ed in rivers
the mild and cra­nial sky
grows large,
lifts edge to center,
embraces the silent cir­rus ligatures
that mir­ror the cold cracking
of the riv­er noon. 

The sky just blows away.

Far down the block,
Peter, my friend,
Stands,
head tipped toward the rooves,
to the fine brawl­ing song
cas­cad­ing down
of spar­rows in the eaves.

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