“A leopard shall watch over their cities.”
--Jeremiah 5:6
Rain fell out of the cloud of time.
It made no argument. Droplets
blotched a blond meadow. Out
of the pattern a leopard arose.
Its eyes reflected the cloud of time.
An old small city is my soul,
such as it is. The leopard watches
over it, her breathing and her heartbeat
syncopated. I do not visit there as often
as I should: Work is elsewhere
in factory-towns of will. When
the small city seems to call, I take
a road curved round a cliff. Up there
sits the leopard. The ledge is blue.
Arrived, I seek a sanguine plaza. People
I have tried to be loiter there. They slouch
and lean and gab. They know me well.
Out of the rain in a baked café,
we share a meal. We speak of the leopard,
become one person in the cloud of time.
hans ostrom circa 1990/2021
