Polished Stones for 7/17/2011

through the coneflower field
scissoring sunlight
into ribbons...
mockingbird

***

(to the mockingbird)

what are you laughing at, my friend,
as you sit on the edge
of the fence
and see me my face flush
from being out of shape

***

from what isn't there
you scratch the surface...
dried up cigarette

***

sun-dried earth...
you find the sweetest bite
in feathered grass
and share the sunset
with another long-eared friend