They are warned not to throw stones,

those people in glass houses, but what

they should do no one says.

So they sit in dining room chairs or

among pillows on a white couch.  They flip

through magazines, not quite reading.

They watch birds wing past and open

windows to hear their songs, to hear

the breeze, to relieve the icy silence.

People in glass houses stare out,

wondering who is peering in and if

behind birch trunks or gazebo vines

they clutch rocks in their dirty palms.