Reds doodledoo in our gong-like metal barn.
Pregnant cows moan from neighboring pastures.
Squirrels dart down bare branches.
Amid them birds sing a dozen echoing tunes.
Above them geese honk, heading north.
Beyond the high wall of naked trees,
Blue mist lays upon a dewy knoll
Under a purple sky.
The slope dead ends into tall amber grasses that crowd the creek bank where it meanders and widens and reflects the purple.
Soon that branchy thicket will leaf out.
Then I will see only the affects of those squirrels when branches rustle
And a flash of wings when hidden singers flit.
The black walnuts will draw a curtain over the knoll.
The maple will veil the creek.
The black locusts will hide the distant cow-speckled hills.
And the giant oaks will block the sprawling sycamores that stand white like bleached bones against the dark far-away forest.
In summer, our world shrinks.
I am held by gently clasped hands, like a caught but well-fed cricket, walled in by tree fingers.
I turn and all around is green and green and flowers and flowers
As if nothing else existed.
Except this clearing
With its wood house,
Those chickens,
Flashes of wings,
Hints of squirrels,
And 1000 flowers
At which to look closely.
