They tower in a double row in sober majesty
over the summer sunlit meadow,
the air is dry, hot and breezy,
perfect for their gods’ tongues and wings.
There’s anything you can sense in between the leaves
trimmed with winding chains of whispers
and perpetually loosening chains of sky
that allude to indwelling distances
with lips like just brushed piano keys
and half closed eyes.

While the land beneath
is in the noon’s fist
and blade after blade of grass
endures the mirage.