I walk beneath the shadows of dragonflies and
in fields of stunted daisies
A witness to migrating monarchs
Whose voyage is eons from being completed,
with 3 weeks at most to live.
I walk in pale fields of dusty sunbeams
and loud fading moonlight
Humming crickets play accompaniment
to solo pairs of feet, making way for still creeks
and large lily pads
to find a nice place to think.
I love dear creeks
That bubble and flow
With ice-cold clear water
Creeks are where the Fairies live
With peace and harmony soothing
I would love to live by a dear creek.
Just beneath the road insensate,
in the little creek that crawls through town,
the rains brought him.
Iron-blue, patient, slender, high sits his head –
a lance, now raised – now half-tilt as he sights his prey – raised again
as a drifting leaf disrupts his aim.
Upstream he prowls, that his prey sees
He stalks with long, slow strides, his legs thin and
graceful not to disturb the quiet current of the water and
give himself away to senseless quarry. Few call him spindly,
I imagine. Not I.
By the shore, fish-bones, whole
but for the flesh,
sink into the mud.
A thoughtless dart, a flash, a writhing
beast falls still on his speartip.
What am I, then, that
he flies when I draw close?