On brown earth and fields of clovers,
a glade has grown to be.
Its cool breeze and green leaves
offer peace and solace to me.

Spears of sun pierce through the shade
and paint the thirsty wood.
Its tendriled veins writhe and stretch,
beneath a canopied hood.

Atop the ferns a parascope rises
swaying back and forth.
It moves to the left, it moves to the right,
and then I hear a snort.

My dog eared friend brings to me,
a long and pointed gift.
But such a prize is recognized
to leave just as quick.

The air is filled with warbeled songs
from treetops far and near.
But an incessant buzz cuts like unkindness
and comes to fill my ear.

I see it plain above my zenith,
a machine of flying plastic.
Its rotors spin in four successions,
it floats and moves - stochastic.

This hovering sentinel watches all
with a tiny gazing eye.
But who's to gain, learn, intrigue,
by spying from the other side?

From up so far a world so small:
he sees himself a king.
Out of dangers, out of touch,
to him no harm can bring.

And though he thinks that he remains
concealed, secure, untracked.
He does not know, below the grove,
I am staring back.