NATIVE PLACE

 

Between here and the road, the intermittent
sound of summer cars across blond pastures,
fat black cows grazing, lazing in shadows—

a gentle world where coyotes pass and pause
for a squirrel, a bobcat trains her babies,
and crows raid bird nests for their own.

Snake bit, your mother’s inside dog is gone
to meet her, yet I still leave the sticky door
ajar, listen while I dress for his awakening.

Between here and the road, we see what we want,
watch naked skeletons of oaks come alive, and
long-limbed sycamores dance in an orgiastic tangle.

We can feel these hillsides breathe, hear
the heartbeat underneath. Not since the natives
has this place told so many stories.

 

4 responses to “NATIVE PLACE

  1. Nice poem, John. Really nice…I wish I could see more things with your eyes…

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, my friend. What I see comes from trying to make sense of my surroundings, and giving them human attributes makes the most sense of all. Contrary to what we learned in school, we humans are not all that unique.

      Like

  2. Throw in some water and take out the cars…Shangri-la.

    Liked by 1 person

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