"Towhee,"
someone signals,
we lift binoculars—
morning bird calls, the bird names in
our calls.
To
Be King
The sword
comes out smoothly
from its wait in the stone.
Only in a dream is his name...
Arthur
Saturday Morning Gossip
we chat
over latte
at alfresco cafes—
the ink on the newspaper dry,
barely...
To Find Wings
Dull clumps
of brown dangle
in eucalyptus shade,
easily dismissed as dead leaves.
Then...bursts
of orange in morning sunlight
fluttering, fluttering
as some monarchs
take flight.
