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I waited for an epiphany,
a moment of doves
and dazzling rays of sun
sprinkling on my face,
dancing like sprites.

Or perhaps an hour
of darkness and rolling
thunderstorms, pounding
in my being like timpanis,
moving in clouds—black, billowing.

But neither came
and nothing in between.
So I sat and watched a thrush
thrust among the branches
of maple trees and adjacent brush.

​Sitting there, by rippling stream,
I dreamed what it might mean,
to be in a painting, and know
that you are simply part
of a larger work of art.