A break from being haunted

I do not have any reason to think that
dying feels like staring out of the window.
I watch the transfer of music from air to the
tree agreeable to mysteries. It is the fall of dusk
and the day-sky-things are falling to layers of
dark settings. For example, the clouds merge
into the young blackness like the infrasonic
hum between loudspeakers’ screams. Few birds
losing the bronze on them trace the dark with
a tenderness of the pond surface rippled by a
fish in motion. On the banks, the unwrap of
low notes of an aubade. Turning our forms into
a smaller mess. It brought back like the
connotation of the word eucalyptus, where the endless
lands had plenty of summers. You and I joyfully
wandering through them. The metaphor I sought
then, I seek. Alas! their slippery scales
make my catch difficult. A thing known to embers.