Ink Black Crane

The part when you’re just being,
Just a bundle of basic
Bodily functions breathing

In a chair by a window,
Alone while the sun comes up
And the clouds alternate shades—

Snowy against purple darks,
Dove grey, bronze, floral coppers,
Grey-white again against blue—

And you think of the Taoists,
Their disconcerting habits,
Like climbing towers to drone

And tune themselves to what is
While still striving for magic
Flights to immortality—

That’s one of the better parts
Of what is, letting the ink
Black crane fly off on its own.