Vicissitudes of cloud have broken rain
and lightning over every inch of path;
though now the slosh of puddle faintly gleams
in sunsplit respite and placid silence soothes
some spare survivors,
(thunder-flattened leaves
still gasping for green air off slashed branches),
sundered trunks of oaks
are everywhere.
He looks, but can't believe
the victory of sever in these woods,
presided over now by vacant sky
and muted trill of lark. Such rule by chance-
sent fury frightens;
theorems disappear
to chaos in a world of garbled ruins.
He's frantic for some order;
hawk ascends,
then traces perfect circles based on Pi.
© Lee Slonimsky, 2023
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