The Resting

Dusty little chickadees
hop on in your hunt for morsels.
Small writhing dust worms
hidden just for you.

Rangy, audacious racoons,
only intimidating when
you know you're being watched.
Hang in the oaks,
and throw your stones.

Flickering little ones,
stay away from the satanic crows.
They watch you with their blackness,
their haunted feathers reach for you.

Wind falls,
cresting the plains
with its soft hand,
hanging just above
the voidless conspiracy of grasses.
Together, they made it impossible
to forget the natural world.

It calls to me,
beautiful, bleak places
of rest.