My mechanical pencil traces the junkets
of my moderated mind. I plunk myself
down in front of the ground, trying to
determine the reality of this elevation,
the congeniality of our arbitration.
Arbor play, the true calling of the wind.
Each needle wheedles the breeze for
another spruce taste without all that
airy haste. Grace the hillside cautiously.
The burrowing rodents share their homes
with the under-rock rattlesnakes, sneaking
from the front door to the afternoon snore
with life in paws, with luck without unhinged jaws.
Each scratch itches the pulped and pounded
and flattened, gratis. Look ahead and you will
see heads looking ahead. That's the thing about
seeing: sights are the sight of the sightline,
the expectation's concatenation with the bright,
fine edges of the folded corneal husks, driving
home to the cortical index where the memory
stores its retail minutes as lucid placid pictures.
Roman Ryan 