In the spring time,
I like to lie in the grass
with my head in the over growth,
leaves tented all around,
bottle cap yellow daises springing
higher and imagine
world war three
over the jungle tops,
my Huey nearly eating it
as nature reaches up
and guns blazing and rockets flaring
out in the sunshine,
the pressure of the concussions making
little bubbles of condensation all around,
the end credits rolling
against a backdrop of finger thin columns of
black smoke. Bumblebees bringing
the ground forces and thup thupping.
I yawn. Summer is coming.
The real war begins. For now, though,
my mind plays.
