Story It On On As is raining lightly through the night muddy streets and rain-puddles cars under heavy veil, squatting

if dying to make story under trees.

The trees sat there without brown birds. The brown birds will come later to us From a golden sun behind our house To make nest of straw in our A.C. outlet. In a room of silence I make my story Of a friend with heart that just rebelled Against too much edible oil and work, In a calm of death that had no foretaste On our tongues in the fragrant harbor. The brown birds have to make a story Behind the A.C. outlet in green straw And twigs that will not stay on clamps. The rain has made story of reluctance On muddy roads refusing reverse-flow Under trees that yawned in boredom As stories spread lazily around them.