Who can say how
the palm frond will fall
wrapped delicately around
a stone fountain like
the outstretched arms of
the sistine chapel.
Anymore who can say
how the market will turn,
whether Apple will rise
or facebook will fall like
the ebb and flow of
the ocean’s tide.
I lay reclined at dusk on
cool park grass
weighing questions while
a crescent moon winks across
a sky of colors and
crickets play a melody of
answers.
The Bird's Song 