Perhaps it was the timbre of the summer afternoon--the incessant     whirring.
Or the slant of the light through the maple leaves--the shadowed handprints.
Perhaps it was the way mown grass confused the senses--a greenness swallowed.
Or the feel of your summons against my neck--the invitation whispered.
Perhaps it was all these things--or none of them.
Still, I slid my bare feet through the willowy day
and only caught the glisten in my mother's eye a moment--
before I slipped away.

Dawn is sullen pink--
quarrelsome. Then spooked awake
by ibis beak, pink.

Muggy, after rain.
Iguanas, spiked crests alert,
claim the sun. Steam bath!

At the water’s edge
Herons breakfast among reeds.
But not on me . . . splash!

Shutta Crum, Ann Arbor, Michigan