Out of range

I.

Single cloud impaled
on a mallard´s cry
I sit
out of range
across a lotus pond
centre of breath
for a tropical Monet
grown silent, eye-hand-brush watching
great cupped palms
thrusting green from the weed-clogged water
to receive
the benison of rain.

II.

Cast wide
the net of dreams.
A mountain deposited by morning has fallen asleep in the eye.
A single egret, the one note
of dissent under a radiant cloud.