Pith: A Walk in a Copse

17 Aug 2020

The blunt clicks of landed dragonflies
a puzzle of a descending squirrel
bare branches of a dying tree.

When I move,
they move.

One copper fly upon my hand.

Chittering louder
as I draw closer.

Truck revving
Roadster revving
in machined competition.

Why this copper
on this stump.

Is it dead?

Why these women
a caress of grass.

Is demand real?

As insistent
as the cries
of this
Western wood pewee

Echo of a killdeer.
Please don’t
Please don’t
make me
kill you,