Hawks kettling on the thermals
high above the Appalachians on their way south—it looks like

thought, the mind floating by way of association, veering

and floating, circling back
to the impinging weight of a remembered event

or nonevent of—as what led here in the first place—

mind, the movement of the mind
outweighing any material force or falling

which is the origin of force—where there’s

gravity that is—a falling toward
what ultimately no one knows of,

human thinking reaching

only so far past what can be seen
by way of scientific instruments

such as solar wind out of the sun’s atmosphere

then into Earth’s
appearing in the form

of changes in the weather or a loss of electrical power

—thus entering
a house, a room, the space freeing the mind

without the intimidation of those stands of pines reflected in

Greek or Egyptian groves of columns,
the catalpa’s imposing plate-sized leaves.

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