Our

distant thunder

feet planted hard 

in the sand

a statement of "I" lost amid 

the white-crack of lightening

 

butterflies scatter in their

butterfly manner, skipping on 

unseen air

 

squirrel tail up, 

hungry squirrel tail, shaking in

anticipation, rubbing his

morsel mittens below his

fat eyes

 

tree statues, gnarled, twisted fingers ending

in leaves and moss dreadlocks,

grey green pollen filters not

strong enough to play on, but 

frame well a picturesque 

squirrel

 

determined ant, running at

ant speed, crossing a table of

lazy painted wood and sweet

dirt left of 

free children

 

crickets and birds vying for

Wood Orator

not a cricket match, 

a cricket picket

one at a time their volume 

decreases in the belly 

of a feathered better

 

as the sound of the night rises,

humans tone in, 

often above nature

stomping, crushing,

yelling movers with

their concerns of "I"

 

and somewhere softly,

butterfly quiet,

a mosquito tastes

i

Author's Note

Written 8-13-09