It's Lonely

It's lonely as the day
drifts toward orchids in
the sky,
but leaves shade -
the mighty light
bulbs of color dumped
across it,
as I wait we skirmish
for a milder solstice.

More leaves, branches
decay in wonder.
My scowl makes it
complete, as though
the night were furrowed
with utility - girders,
timbers and all wanting
more of me to ponder.

As I take a step -
hollow, broad with no
indentation as such,
on the crowd,
hardly speaking -
a murmur to me of
my shadow,
it drapes across the chair.

It's easy to sit in silence,
a mockery to sound -
I laugh while chatter
erupts to force its will -
the dynamo fades as
the hawk flies off,
spanning mountains.
I fly to where?
To repose, only you
know that song.

© 2013 Larry Ingram