I dream at noon
of creamy tan
pastures of glue.
I watch from the road,
the wheat field bubble,
swaying as one organism in wind.
I dream at noon
of the three foot tall black bird
that falls from high telephone wire
to be swallowed up whole
by creamy tan pastures of glue.
Talons touch husk,
and feathers bend down
like servants to a royal master
demanding their bow
reach the underground.
Just before I woke,
one minute past noon,
I remember the one
that struggled and stirred,
paddling ruined feathers
until this resistance could reach my ear.
This one silly black bird,
in the moment it gave up,
looked up with relief to smile at me.
And then just like that,
the wheat field won.
And no evidence remained
that thrashing about
will ever cause one like me
to help you out.

written on 06/28/2010 by: Matt Kane