Just now, this morning

The view from here never changes,
is never the same. Now a thin wash of cloud.
Then, in the morning gloam, a streak of grey.

The poet’s landscape, in Emerson, rearranges
property lines with a turn of a ray.
The eye adjusts as sifting, winnowing light allows.

The sight from here, seated, estranges
what should be most common, crowds
new thought with memory. Familiarity frays.

The blue beyond & turning trees make exchanges
without a need of recognition or for praise.
They make trade and lay bare their devices for a crowd.

The early students, now arriving, gather to block my view.
A flag’s aubade begins with a sign I cannot fail to misconstrue.