A black speckled brown thrush
warbles while sitting atop an old decrepit greying wooden fence post
off, in the distance, stands (barely)
a barn that ceased to be functional at the turn of the prior century.
Faded wood, splintering, shows exposed nail heads
rusty and oxidized… perfect to pull at a wayward summer dress
or perhaps catch and tear the skin
of the playing child lost in imagination.
Brambles climb and creep up dilapidated walls
giving the illusion that this manmade object
sprung forth from the berry bushes
as if it were mutated fruit or maybe an exposed root system.
The low constant buzz of mud wasps
diligently building nests in eves
drowns out the sounds of jets flying overhead,
the occasional tick lights gently upon untreated skin
and desperately begins clawing its way
to a hairy spot in a darkened area.
Underneath misshapen cuts of plywood
three coiled garden racers sit in the cool
waiting with infinite patience
for the tiny shrew or mouse youth
to make a mad dash
meal time comes irregular on warm May afternoons.