1.
The sky, slate gray, settles
On the horizon.
The Earth, drab brown, buckles
Under the weight.
Trees scrape the clouds
For sustenance, their
Branches like bony fingers
Clawing the thickened air.

                 2.
Sparrows flutter in the lawn.
Heat rises.
This summer ecosystem
Unwittingly
Works together for
The proletariat’s revolution.
Creatures of the world unite!

                 3.
I stare for hours out
My empty front door,
And see
Not a single movement.
The south wind has died
Down. The ideal vanishes.
Grass stands tall in the dimness.
Squirrels perch high on trees,
Scolding.

                 4.
If I could tell Nature
One thing, it would be
Not about its circular seasons.
Not about its intricate play
Of flora and fauna.
Not about its compromised
Beauty decorated in decay.
Not about its exodus of species.
No, I would sing of its
Invisible source, random
And ordered,
Mysterious yet familiar,
The coalescing, pressurized
Source of our water-logged
Globe.

                 5.
I would tell of
The feast of the senses,
Cacophony and all.
The red tooth and claw
Of survival.
The colors of delight
Along a mountain stream.
All in one; that’s the secret.
Harmonious, injurious,
Savage, tame.
Who takes the part must take the whole.

                 6.
The sky, slate gray, settles on the horizon.
The Earth, drab brown, buckles beneath the weight.
I stare for hours out my front door, and see nothing.