November Morning, Boston

"Nature,' said Monet, dismissing pointillism,
"is not composed of dots.'
Today, dots
crowd the air, buoyant in the down-draught,
silhouette black trees, fill grooves and runnels
of bark; spiky bushes become nests for them.
Smoke from chimneys and grates sifts through them.
Our feet come to know new textures:
dough-clumps, sponge, crunchy dust.
Mouths open to receive them, or close
as if to exclude glass insects, lashes flutter
to prevent crisp teardrops stinging the eye.
Turning, they fall like dice — chance moving
in all directions. Earth harbours, consumes them.
After, air is a pure outline, a crystal breath.