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.
.
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