The window is a form

of consciousness, pattern

of formed sense

through which to look

into the wild

that is a pattern too,

but dark and flowing,

bearing along the little

shapes of the mind

as the river bears

a sash of some blinded house.

This windy day

on one of the panes

a blown seed, caught

in cobweb, beats and beats.

Window Poems

by Wendell Berry

Olive wanted to climb out the window last night hearing the cicadas buzz in the courtyard. I wonder if she knows how high we are. I wonder if she thinks she could fly on the sound of wings. I read a poem of Wendell Berry this morning followed by Rest in Peace. Reading his Window Poems is directly different now.