Blue Window

Enough of the fog green and moss grey
Thinks the garbage collector as he stomps around
The cabin on his self-appointed rounds.
No one local needs to be told the local weather anyway.

The day goes as it goes,
Not as he or anyone wills it, not just,
But it's hardly a total bust.
The vicissitudes keep him on his toes.

The collector sorts recyclables, phrases
With enough pith left that it's puzzling
They're so lightly tossed, no ideas about the thing,
Not even the thing itself, just the bit that amazes.

At the end, or nearly, when a pink sun
Decorates the blue windows, and the trees
Hum in chorus, hoarse angels happy for a breeze,
The light is dreamy and the garbage collection is done.