The blue god listens from atop
a floating dime, a white saucer,
for the owl’s hoot, for the pert
birch trees sleepy shuffle,
the low old gust that cackles,
the sound of yowls grinning
from a canyon mouth. At dusk,
he pinches the gold coin
from the horizon’s ear
between his thumb and finger
in a smooth sleight of hand,
another day winks asleep.

 


 

K.E. Kimball