Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
the canopy of the flowering pin oak,
the undulating clouds in distinct patterns
wandering toward the undefined horizon.
In a field of Sunlight between two pines,
several horses whisper secrets amongst
themselves in a language that I don't know,
but the wading birds somehow understand.
The flies and the mosquitoes swirl about
the summer air making a distinct sound
when they swing like comets by my ears.
But the chicken hawk floats in wide circles
as if it were a luminary looking for home,
while I remain the poet wasting my life.
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