In my daydream I became a fisherman,
casting a net of starlings over a cloud,
army helicopters were distant silver buoys,
marking the spot where the horizon joined up
with the earth. A wily bystander was a buzzard,
hunched in a tree, a crooked figure draped in a greatcoat.
Believing in other ways of fishing, he cast his own net onto the road,
onto a meal prepared by a car, and picked at the formless red interior,
his head moving with sharp, little movements, his yellow eyes
crystalline, vast; and above, the clouds kept shifting,
and the starlings had gone.