Pencil Stubs Online
Leaves That Move without A Breeze
John I. Blair
Hunting through primordial trees
Saw opportunity or risk
In leaves that move
Without a breeze.
Today I do the same
Except it is not game I seek
Nor Indians I fear.
If a spear of goldenrod
Nods when the garden air is still,
It warns me rats may be about Ė
Rats that fatten nightly
On the birdseed I put out.
So I peer beyond my window,
Heed the slightest twitch,
And mark the spot.
Thatís where Iíll site
The traps Iíve bought
And garner bodies, small and limp,
With which I can enrich the soil
And feed the gods that drove them there.
©2013 John I. Blair
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