i fly South

i stood and watched the sun set pink over the Rockies today
its fading light glisten gold through tree leaves
and kneeled down to smell the cut grass beneath me
wet with irrigated hose-water -
i believe i grow taller and more in tune with creation
and when i die i won't mind to have some shade grass sprout from my freckled flesh and yellow daisies from my breathless chest
for my grandchildren to smell for a couple of priceless
smiles of satisfaction
- to return to Earth from whence i came
no - fields seem a great place to be
where i can never linger long enough
among sparrows racing four inches from Earth
like Star-Wars pod-racers
darting, chasing and
catching minute fruit flies that hover in globs around my head
when the sun is out
or mule deer that hop
if i sit still enough and unintrusive
one by one over the fenceline to chew the greener grass
of Waite Phillip's lawn
to which all water in NM is sent
- which is surely why there is a drought and fireban
but i enjoy it all the same as often am
the only one enjoying this God/man collaboration
of landscape perfection - and oh!
to lie on my back and stare at a cloudless sky
my eyes perceive no depth, blur
and lose themselves in blue
until some distant {fake metal} rigid bird charges uninvitedly
through spewing unnatural {scratching/scraping the sky} streaks of cloud that dissipate
eventually i hope to grasp a raincloud and wring it dry over the dust
remove its rusted touch to see what miracles would sprout
upwards in praise of their Creator
but i've been so busy making noise
that i've forgotten the sounds real birds make.