The children are playing in the wood
with dinosaur trees
and flickers of Cardinals, Jays,
and Peckers busying themselves,
between eddies of bushwhacking
stick wielding
ninja fights.
An orange and, at one time, white Tabby
ducks a flight of acorns
from dusky palms and hides beneath
the fronds and eaves of a
fortress fit for a most princely
demon of prehistory.
Stubbing toes and elbows
on the game trail as they
tag and spit and bellow
and laugh
to the river's edge
and sit and drink
more blue sky
than dreamt
possible
the day before,
they build plans
for attempting the moat
barring their way to
a portion of science that is,
honest to God,
alchemic and metallic
and heady with
enough discovery
to make Prometheus wish
he poked around a few moments more
before settling on fire,
but it's seven o'clock in the afternoon
and the evening is plucking the clouds
thin quilled feathers, a broad shouldered
mother with butcher's fingers
and doe lipped dexterity,
even as they flee
with the days westward exhalations.
The trees begin satisfying
their bellies
with the last scraps
of daylight and
the operation is postponed
out of necessity, and
the chorus feast,
in its nibbling chirping bites,
reminds them all
of the soft spots in their
little exhausted store houses
for the sweet rice and red beans
soon to occupy the table
back home.
