Angus-Lion

I wish I was in an Israeli olive orchard, a cranberry camouflaged rain-garden of blushing amber or dozing off on an old rotten wood dock in North Georgia, my pale lemony skin and gelid eyes closed, the murky green syrup and soft moss among the forgotten timber and remnants of lions. The frayed fishing line spiderwebs and rusting skeletal frame underneath, horrid stalks of amputated Elms, the melting topaz stalactites from another planet made from abstract pools of hemorrhaging orange pond-mercury, the sunken motor-boat; a lavish ruptured hotel of decayed mildew and festering allure, the artery-blue metallic crank and stolen ship-anchor, the silvery tadpoles making shy ripples and scintillating particle reflections for the dart frogs, a dedicated chorus of army-turtle on the trunk-pulpit of a dead blood-Oak.

The buzzing dragonflies are like tiny insecure Apache helicopters, the playful adolescent fireflies like brightly elusive falling stars, little light-houses illuminating in random outbursts, crazy intertwined and complex circuit boards on the rocky shoreline. The drone of predatory mosquito's and bewildered cistern-ants on the march, they look like a militia of rag-tag Somali soldiers, all lined up on the gentle arc of a bending grape colored twig, a battle formation for the drunk, an African safari sun-dome in a humid swarm of itching and bruising welts of color and fig. Broken leaves beneath a ceiling of ashen Skyline-ivy, birch bugs, skyscraper-beetles and titanic elephant snails, the lone stone faucet in a newly carved mountain cavern, a deep puddle of chrome and golden haze, the slumber of a sleepy gray squirrel, a bed of almonds and cashews, the old logging road permeated with the debris of Cherokee Rose and castle-thistle, blackened tomato vines and fractured tiles of glassy praying mantis, the milky chalk-pumice and dewy honey droplets, the ever-expanding moisture on a delicate Chennai tea-leaf.

The white bay-pines and canopy of burnt green kudzu are almost made of breath, subdued daylight, the brittle ambrosial bark and scalped branches from a previously angry storm, the heavily blotted purple bloom-clouds and obscure waves of diminishing contrast, the silent fall of musical light ribbons, a canvas brown floor-map of rough texture and abrasive burlap, the permanent sky spitting icy horse carousels and dragon sand blasted globes of frozen teardrops, reminiscent of your Heaven-resting dog, your only friend, a flowery dung heap for a grave, the small wet footprints in the red clay, the muddy maze of sharp sticks and scattered smooth river-rock, the strewn hay-straw and cold frost-needles make a nice nest for the trembling Wren.