The waist-high trees are captive
in the hands of the wind,
bending their barky backs
so their canopy tickles the
roots too big to stay blanketed beneath the giving soil.
Gales send the finger like leaflets of the
waist high trees
dancing frantically as though waving
to a loved one leaving too soon.
Nodules buried in years of story and decay
are given the task of ensuring a foundation.
A job they enjoy.
Up on the hill the grass blades
are consumed with no protests
by the unstoppable cow tongue.
The once gold-green,
glass-green,
vascular blades
now muddled to a paste
in the salivating mouth of a creature
who could be a beast if seen in a certain light.
Up on the hill flies border the wet oasis of an eye
while on the arching back of cattle the egret spends its waking hours
on the slow moving train with four legs
eating the six legged, six thousand eyed insects.