Sitting in a purple tree,
with leaves of orange and green
the black iguana sits carefrer,
and contemplates a curious scene.

Below him on the forest floor
a steady line of ants emerge,
green ones from a red oak door,
with no walls and no floor.

Key ants? He wonders not quite aloud,
He drops down to try and see,
He launches his tongue so pink and proud,
and cathes snts, not one, but three.

Expecting citrus, **** and sweet,
as razored bites makes them pop,
licorice, yuck that is no treat,
he wipes his tongue to make it stop.

The other ants laugh with Glee,
the iguana turns from black to red,
extensor claws appear and ants flee
to late a swping claw strkes them dead.

From somwhere outside my bubble,
the mindless quacking of a mallard
has infiltrated my thoughts and ideas,
confusing and annoying.

The sun, blinding at it's zenith,
now fades into a vermilion pool,
mercurial silver water transformed,
photovoltaic cells failing in loss of light.

I too begin to fade, diminishing energy,
consumption of power during the day,
draining batteries, my thought light dimming,
the sun, passes the horizon, and darkness envelopes.

Unscrewing my light bulb and setting aside,
preparing for a rest. and shedding thoughts,
much like the fall trees losing leaves one at a time,
I close my eyes and dream, of a duck and a lake

The highway long since reclaimed,
in the years after man,
we never leave a permanent. mark,
though we think we can.

Asphalt returns to dirt,
glass returns to sand,
eventually even steel oxidzes,
returning iron to the land.

iIn the years after man,
much healing will endure,
despite. our thoughts contrary,
humans were but a virus to be cured.

In the blink of an eye,
the earth returns to it's original. state,
another species comes along,
to draw on a blank slate.

Flavored creamer clouds
swirling in my coffee mug,
moving shapes of critters,
but this morning there's really a bug.

Pour another cup,
expecting pretty clouds,
but the only one that appears
is a nuclear mushroom floating proud.

Take a sip, oh so sour,
I guess the milk had turned,
dump and rinse and try again,
I'm starting to feel burned.

This time I just pour it black,
to where has gone my mood,
I turn and head to the table,
trip and spill it into my food.

Throw it all away,
think about crawling back into bed,
but it's a manic Monday morning,
and if I miss work my job is dead.

Building in the distance,
an anvil shape forms,
a sudden booming ringing,
as thunders hammer pounds down.

The fading sun is obliterated,
blacked out by flowing clouds,
moving with a willful force,
its power becoming obvious.

Electrical sparks, miles long,
golden streaks toward the ground,
impacting with destruction,
an ancient tree explodes.

Proud now of its process,
it whips itself into a frenzy,
twisting wind swirls and swirls,
into the finger of a god.

The finger thumps the countryside,
it reloads and thumps the town,
booming laughter after each of its
fancy flaming flashes.

As the sun comes up,
the clouds burn away,
the fingers trail is obvious,
traced a path of devastation.

Dripping drops, dripping drops,
a puddle here and there,
crimson and fading to black,
the pinestraw congealing.

The shadowed form stares,
back down the tunneled trees,
a torturous silhouette standing,
moonlight shines, but cannot identify.

A demon loose in the pines,
branching out to barren land,
but returning to his lair,
leaving a luring trail.

Do not follow the dripping drops,
smeared here and there,
if you do, your bones too,
will reside upon the pile.

On the shores of farm ponds,
and at the edges of lakes,
this is where my memory,
frequently does it take,

Fishing rod in hand,
I walk behind my dad,
casting out for bass,
none of this is sad.

Prowling through the mud,
throwing rocks and catching fish,
if only I could go back here,
sometimes do I wish.

So instead I grab the phone,
and give my dad a call,
tell him dates of the fishing trip,
we take together every fall.