an old writer and his words

This morning the skyis a painting by Magritteas it is most days, no titleCeci n’est pas un ciel. The birds rise fromthe wetland as Escherwould imagine them,the small wetlandonce a place thatmight be painted byMonet on a day whenhe cared nothingfor water lillies, but nowa jungle of Gauguin. We wait for the returnof the flocks…