Two hot spring weeks and already
the Earth cracks. Haze
hovers above the uncut grass,
sway-less eye dance -
a trick of the heat: bees bob
dandelions; fresh nectar
for the first eggs.
They fish in silence - the man,
the heron. When one casts its beak
through the mirror course the other
whip-ducks his fly. Slow the ripples
travel, armadas cruising the canal;
where the waves cross a stickleback
giants and dwarfs, nestweed in mouth.
For my first burlesque of the season
I seek an audience of crows; there is much
for me to expose and, when done, they caw
an appreciation. I lumber onto my back
and let Aten's fingers massage me:
"you've fattened well," the lost god
whispers; "I accept your singe of a gift."