Voices from a cloud,
a few gods,
two or three, insistent!
—some wrong visited on them, a crowd
of squabblers coming through the mist.
nearly dark. The cord’s
curlicued like a pig’s tail. You bend your head and listen
to their reports,
to their snorts
and justifications and you can make out—
like birds following each other in the sky—some words
of Walter Cronkite in the living room. It’s about
dinnertime. The sun’s lit the western clouds.
The birds, outlined with glory,
are making their way south.