On a clear day, you can hear forever.
Architect birds, tucked beneath eaves,
dismantle their winter homes.
Each tugged twig, every plucked leaf
resounds against the still of morning.
The Crepe Myrtles drop finished blossoms
on the tin roof of a tumbled shed.
Their blood escapes, a whispered hiss,
indigo stains mark rites of passage.
A limb falls somewhere in the treeline,
it whistles its descent through tangled teeth;
the dive of a god jumping for pleasure
into drifts of deadwood.
Angles of perception shift with the fog.
A strange sun cuts unfamiliar paths
through the Iris banked beside the fence rail.
It prisms between lavender, pink, yellow;
cups fragile petals with a lover's hands.
June bugs, early for their season, move
in perfect tracks of two across river stone,
the hard shells of their backs glisten;
irridescent oil slicks dancing on granite.
The face of dusk becomes blue.
Pulls its shade in time-lapsed seconds
across the dimming panes of day, a draw
that deepens cobalt to navy to black.
The heart of night is a lonely hunter.
Black-hulled pecans tap their nails
on cedar planks that guard the walls;
they beg invite, hide calling cards
in shadowed piles beneath the whipgrass.
Wood gods play tag along sleep's perimiter.
They rustle through Pine, Elm, and Oak on feet
sprung from root, branch, and bark; their laughter
sings under sills on a mid-spring's dream.
A mosquitoe dips and darts in darkened rooms,
hovers above the sweat of an uneasy sleep.
It hums accompaniment with staccato pulses,
a persistant scratch stalking a restless itch.