L'aura del Campo

Collecting feathers.

Collecting feathers

Not all birds live to the end of day.
Cold breasts of fluff show the way
of all flesh, told in tails
that once bobbed in bushes,
flew from limb to limb,
to nest and back again.
Dislodged, their feathers flutter down,
gathered by kids who marvel at their flight,
oblivious of their common plight: to die,
perchance to live,
to fly.

© Kåre Enga [164.156] 07-08-03

IMAGES and THOUGHTS

The praying mantis, green short winged, attentive, poised by the water spigot, giving me the eyes.

Symphony: the fade of cicada, the crescendo of crickets still a month off, the multi-layered song of July's ashes to August dust.

The itch, the scratch, the welts. August is the month that bites.

Warm lingering fragrance of who-knows-what, a muggy mix of July's leaving.

ME:

The heat wilts what energy I have. The garden grows in jungle swatches and sparse parched patches. My hair thins. I'm at Z's. The a/c pleases me and the coffee's 'smoky'. I'm collecting feather's. No red ones yet. I did find a pink one though. I think it's human, subspecies unknown.

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