[First draft of a poem from July]
A dark red ant crawls unevenly
over the uneven green ground, by
the soft white skin on my arm.
A pool of water collects between
An undulation in the moss.
They’re like trees, and…
Up! The bird feeder,
with its windows,
and the ground below:
islands of moss, scattered seeds,
and the creatures above,
watching me intently, waiting for me
to stomp away, leaving their feeding grounds clear.
But I linger and feel my feet on the softness,
my eyes passing over the leaves and spaces between,
and not seeing. The drops on my shoulders
stream slowly down as I pace,
and finally touching my toes on the hard cold surface,
leaving, undefended, the feast under the feeder.