The Little Clues

sometimes you don't pick up on the little clues
even though you watch the news
the sky darkening in the middle of the day

the tunnel of silence in birdsong
you keep moving right along
engaged in small tasks at home

the washline's out
and it's coated with rime

the bird's won't stay
not even with lime

the leaves have packed their bags at nine
and even the stars.
and you're at home without a car.

here you are then at the adding machine
keeping count of all you had seen
even the fleeting warnings in dreams

the sun peeled like an orange
from way back

the train veering off the blue track
the inside mechanism of the clock
that ticks when it's supposed to tock

and all that you held dear
vanishing up to here,
the last front porch.

and you the former  and you the almost scorched
with nothing left to
compare yourself to.

in a jeweled whirlwind

hidden hidden in God.

mary angela douglas 7 may 2020