Patternicity Poem by Scott J. Shepard

A whistle…

The wind rustling through the trees
lurking behind, as if speaking out to me.
Pleading "yes" I am real, whispering
its disclosures over and over.

I can feel it pass through myself, fall below me
and devolve itself through the grass, only to be
birthed again as a panicked Crossover speeding swift
down route 30, gone too fast to learn its
last words.

A bluebird trails pavement as though to pick up
where inquiry left off, as though to sing
a voices resurrection gently back to me
early in the morn.

Could this be my calling?
The living? The dying?