I lay belly down on the last of the summer grass,
numbering its blades. I refused to come in for dinner
until I’d counted them all.
You can see all the blackberries from this angle. Look
the best ones are hiding.
The wind through the trees
tricking you into thinking
that they’re talking about you
and you check behind your ears for dirt
just in case.
And the squirrels break the silence fighting up the evergreen,
And the song birds meet for choir practise and take their notes from falling leaves.
But the wood pigeon soothes them;
they’re all lovely enough. So I’ll not move
until I smell fire
from the sun on my back.
I spot a new blade of grass and start counting again