The birds fall silent, don’t know
what’s happened to the world.
All except the nightingale, quiet
through the long day, only now encountering
the conditions its song requires.
All sorts of things pass on: wood petrifies
while rock hews to bone — the earth’s instinct
for leaving evidence permeates.
How the haunted ones wrestle with what was here.
There were blossoms of fire and dew, riots
of feathers — any number of legs
crawled under the flagstones.
Probabilities lace night’s corset. A world
that might have been billows under her skirts,
crinoline of shadow and time. Whispers
hint at towers that might one day reflect the sun.