the grass grows tallest
near the edge of the thicket
and offers a caesura
from summer’s pulsation
to the meek and ferocious, alike.
A haven for the seemingly disparate
field mice and feral cats,
hiding in the whiskey grass;
neither thinking to sound or move,
until darkness arrives, and
they resume their convictions
of living in the dimmet.
Taps and Ratamacues 
This is beautiful. Here is my poor attempt at a poetic response:
Yes, the heat of the day is much too hazy,
And the animals much too lazy,
To fight their foes,
With more than their toes,
In the shadows of poplars and daisies.
Thanks Michelle. I appreciate your comment and response.