What ought to be, on the word of a whispering lark
that flutters over dew-soaked fields, masked
by the sun's bright, blinding reflection.
Refracted rays deflect the bird's flight
as my ears strain to make out his faded song.
Lost, my eyes scour the tips of the sparkling leaves
But the drips, with each minute, evaporate to clouds
as with them the lark's whisper wanes to a hush,
and still I contemplate what ought to be.