All day the mockingbird’s been whining from the cryptomeria.
What could she have to complain about?
Just look at this place, its earthen pots and summer thrift,
the wide expanse of lawn down to the sea.
Wisps of cloud triangulating like great flying sails.
And today, how the dragonflies cavort as though sprung
from dragonfly jail.
The hour itself spells July: swallowtails, haze of horizon, the water
stippled just the sharpest shade of blue.
I put down my book, listen to her grouse. Above me
the leaves of the witch hazel, their thin corona of rust.
Photo by hart_curt on flickr
© 2012 Kim Triedman. All rights reserved.