Where is the Volcano?

Despite the subtle tremors that might

introduce catastrophe,

there is still

cause for celebration.

A perfect crescent moon adrift

in the dawn-lilac sky.

The plumage of a starling as it wipes

its beak along the bough of the apple tree

after tasting the fruit

then takes flight

iridescently.

All together

they appear so dark at a distance when flocked.

There is a metaphor there somewhere.

I am now comparing things to other things.

Suddenly I am concerned with history,

I thirst for affection, I am jealous and needy,

for once

I think of the future, but at the same time

think nothing of it. Think of nothing much other than

the moment that is occupied by the body beside me.

I am a starling in its first flock.

Powerless against greater forces and directed by a body other than

my own, like in a dream.

Murmuration has its root in sound.

The subtle mutter of strong tremors.

What happened to the birds

at the foot of Vesuvius?

I dreamed I saw their wings unfold as I was smothered

and briefly envied their aloofness,

but entwined with you as we were ashed

I was content to stay that way forever.

And waking you asked:

where is the volcano?