All at the Base of the Shade Tree...

Hover, in the silent pulse of a sweat bee licking at a weed,
Cat eyes as green as the grass in which she sits,
Shadow cut, piano face of black and white, nose to windy leaves

Home and haven in the branches,
home and haven in the shade,
at the base of the shade tree.

Here, your roots are exposed.

The sun paints bare tree shadows on the yellowed broad faced garage, like the veins of a leaf.
Ghost of natural wood on man-made car house, actual junk house.

The scars on my skin pink in the April afternoon...

I hear a baby cry.
The tree behind me is riddled with holes. The bugs make a carcass out of the lightening struck stump.
I hear them too.
The sounds of decay.

They eat away.

Bird songs muffle the sounds of decay...

Rest now, in the base of the shade tree.