Authorial

Two small birds circled a tree.
Two more cars came down the road.
When you turned to examine

These words, what was going on
In your world? Were you hoping
To find some consolation

Or inspiration for words
You could call your own? No words
Are really anyone’s own,

Though particular clusters
Get attached to certain names.
The names become a shorthand

For the patterns those words made.
Two birds circled. Patterns fade.