We watch it ache and screech,
Tortured for some mercy in its misery,
We’re not allowed to wring its neck
All because the law can love a crow

Every time I mention its pain,
I get scolded. Chastised. Reminded.
This is farming country: and no one loves a crow
They eat the eyes of helpless, newborn lambs
All because farming country loves a lamb
Especially one they can eat themselves

The call on the phone goes nowhere,
Just like that now flightless, punished bird,
Concerns dismissed by automated machines,
No one bothers to come after the tone,
All because no one loves a crow.

Swaying,
Heat pressing into my skin,
The same winged creature circling my face and then landing on the very tip of my nose,
Air thick like a milkshake.
When the rain comes,
Landing with a thud,
Like a bag of sand dropping from the roof of a house,
The animals can breathe,
I can breathe,
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,
Even the crickets let out a sigh,
Pounding like a drum,
Pounding like the same dream every ******* night,
The capybaras and wooly monkeys with their hunched shoulders and squinting eyes,
Let the branches and leaves heave around them,
Verdant,
And flashing,
A globe of bubblegum,
The rain always comes.

oh, the fire with its dancing beams
welcomes each morning with hues so bright,
engorges as the globe circumnavigates,
fading, dissolving, with approaching night.

the clouds play tag with the ball of gas:
covering, as curtains - some thin, others thick.
mighty Cumulonimbus precedes the drops;
delicate Cirrus wisps are the sky’s speckled pick.

the forests serve as shadows for all the horizon:
redwood to palm, soaking up a meal
from the glowing radiations that branch out;
the rooted ground is theirs to steal.

the species of the world adapt to its clock.
majestic elephants roam while the glows remain,
and owls wait for the blackness to settle;
everything in its path is cured of their pain.

A leaf
In the gentle autumn breeze
Softly falls to Earth,
Together with its siblings
It lines the woodland path.

The ground below is cold but soft,
Still sensing the September sun,
Not yet has winter’s icy breath
Been felt, not yet its reign begun.

The creatures of the forest
Patter to and fro,
Their feet and wings stirring the leaves
On the ground below.

By comes a fox, takes careful watch,
Then vanishes from sight,
By comes a robin, plucking berries
And then, once more, takes flight,
By comes a squirrel, in its search
For nuts it takes delight,
And finally, by comes the owl,
Waiting for the cloak of night.

The leaf, still lying on the ground,
Is eager for another day
But then, by comes a gust of wind
And carries it away.

mosquito
made by
God
con spirito,
buzzzinging
by my
ear
(while birds are singing),
God
made u
& i

A feather over

circles in the town canal --


Domestic wildlife.

The nest with swallows:

a squadron squeaks and swishes --


down onto our cat.

It hides behind the knives
every time I start cooking

was it   a month?
              a year?

it cannot be the same spider
but
it is still there

I look at it
Climbing
Is it sacred?

Of me ?
Like I’m of it?

It’s a tiny piece of
Life
that I could
crush
with

Only a hand
I gather the knife

And keep cooking

A gigantic, great giraffe thrusts his head
With that incredibly long neck,
Up into the high trees
To kiss the canopy.

He nibbles at those leaves,
Swirling them into his mouth
With that enormous tongue.

With his mottled, mosaic-patterned hide
He looks like a leopard on stilts
As he towers over all he surveys.

He’s not the most stylish of runners
With those spindly legs
But with that ever so long neck
This Giraffe is the king of the sky.

Only birds like Eagles can look down
On the Giraffe.
He is the highest mammal around
Tall and proud
Seemingly miles above the ground.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\2\2022.