Mars finds its place at supper's table
beside the moon. Sirius will
be fashionably late.
Henry is in the clipped grass filled trench
at yard's end where the fence
meets cinder blocks and fresh earth
crawls with enough insects
to call down Robins
throughout an afternoon.
The forward guard.
A Finch? A starling? A crow
would not waste its time
in a howling, whirlwind, beak snapping
fly by! Tucked low in an unfinished
garden trench at the fence
of a flat world: test! Fur ridge rise
and lay flat and flatter to ground.
Still toward invisibility. Blend.
Pant and blend. Blend. Blend.
The Big Dipper and one satellite.
Xibulba? No, Venus. The Little Dipper
and Orion. Taurus? No, that's an airplane,
that's actually Saturn. This time of year?
Why is it flickering?
Carpenter bee
shoves dust into the air
to make its way
toward the fire's tail.
Through the twilight
lances a pair of eye sized reflectors,
a white beard beneath,
a hazel serpent,
white tipped,
dancing above the blades of grass behind.
The point man is vigilant. The forward guard
reports no activity on the Southern front.
Canary at a get together.
The stars align,
the moon hums,
drinks flow,
the cat does his duty.
