Twenty odd referees blowing whistles first thing call the sun out.
Crying foul. Singing yellow thumbs. Pigeon coup. Upheaval.
Change. Cold night filtered air meets heat head on and wiggles
hips up from asphalt.
Eyes half closed in order to see.
Horizons a voice can’t seem to pull on. Bird songs.
And southern dialects over decaf coffee
loud enough on a front porch to be heard down the street.
Like we are all of us part of this conversation. Birds too.
Raspy ones that bark like feathered kazoos.
Sharp clean could be a grandpa in a supermarket.
Hollow boned morsels tap Morse code.
Tweet like teenagers,
except impeccable grammar.
Then the quiet ones. Watchful birds.
If not for my imagination,
would not nest in these words.
Yet they are there. Bobbing in the treeline.
Staring down silver glimmers tracing the crests of gray lake waves.
Filling young yellow triangles with breakfast.
Not all birds wake up to song.
There are plenty of referees who uphold flat palms.
And only say, with silence, play on.
Scruffy looking if you can call it a tree line.
Little gnarly oaks that only grow
where the ground is burned
every other year, or so. Or sew
Spanish moss like tassels off
proud bowing tree limbs. Or sew on
button nosed pine cones pitted in pockets
of so much sand.
Like fleas if you let them get bad.
Like trees after too many fires,
and how they come back.
More and smaller and shorter and scruffy.
Looking hungry. Staring out hard in that devout
rooted if you can call it an eye line.
Terrified for seasons to change.
Fire means different things,
when you can not run.