The Lark

The lark preens in silence
 grinding her talons like gnashing teeth. 
Seasons float past
a passing rain, slithering
over her gilded feathers
but she moves not a muscle
 save a restless twitching
about the eyelids. 
Glass eyes, opaque
see not the evolution.
Stones into cities, cities into nations
nations into dust they fall
beneath the perch of the lark.
Would her voice shake their slumber?
An eon has she weathered
and withered
and pondered
until every star shoots across the sky
but the sunset glow on the charred dead tree
fades to a flash of fire
that ignites for a solstice milisecond
then vanishes into the oscilations
as the earth whips around in its courses
And still the lark's feathers wane and wax
as the dead tree's blackened spindle
petrifies to crystals
And still the dust rises and falls in clouds
of progress and failures
And still the seasons turn like an hourglass
churning sands into wind currents
gashing her feathers like a clenched fist
of furious retribution
And still the stoney lark
doen't crinkle her throat
into a song.