Black Ice Aubade

No fog this morning-- just black-ice glissade
and hiss of air-brakes as the bus pulled in.
It wasn't dawn yet, but the dark was thin
and light was leaking through the world's facade
reflected by black ice in this aubade.
Perceptions much too fine for mortal skin,
a sound that's hidden by the world's din
that comes from somewhere else, a place called God.
Black ice is glass, a window in the street
a path for light, a net of gleam-fish dying
stranded on an unreal shore, replying
to the echo of my walking feet.
Some unfound logic makes a strong connection
between black ice and a divine reflection.