Fishing

Critter and crickets and

hawks and doves come

forth in a burst of song,

singing here we are

tra la la la la, only

worried about our

biological imperatives--

as is evidenced by our

presence we survive,

and as evidenced thru

our number we re-

produce.

Tra la la la la.

It is cool by the lake--

take that any way

you would like--and I 

am hoping for fish 

to find their way to

cooler waters deep.

And the sky at sunset

has so many shakes of

lavender I wonder how

it could be painted, when

I realize suddenly there

is no way to paint it:

the method doesn't exist yet,

the technique is nonexistent,

and only one artist existing,

could have manufactured it.

That is it's sublimity though,

it is un-reproducable to the

mortal arm of an existence

who has only one creature

capable of marveling.

(Although I think I ought to say for it being one of the only things we do that other animals don't, we do it far too little...I'm up off my high horse now.)

The sky blazes and then cools.

Lavender is replaced with blues

and the cool dark womb of the

evening settles down around us.