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.
I see them gathered
-the yellow susans –
day after day
on the hillside;
struggling to meet the morning sun
-petals flung down
as stretched limbs-
thrusting their faces
toward heaven,
at midday
their arms raised
in praise to a merciful deity,
and in evening
– their buds nodding en masse-
attuned to the canons
of their ancestors.
the foxtail stands tall,
honeysuckle blooms lay dead,
days grow longer still.
hot wind rattles, leaves
grasses bent to acquiesce
the truncated night.
Taps and Ratamacues 