The Green Was Our Home

The Rain falls upon the meadow.
Shelter under the mud ledge.
Mayfly’s wings dotted with heavy mud.
Chipmunk trembles, wet.
The rivulets have become rivers, 
	and to jump is now a jaw of an eagle.
Drops drip from the fibrous tender stiff wings of the mayfly.
The eyes of the munk dart across a rush of water
And back to the dank shelter.
“Are you afraid as I am?”
The mayfly turns to take in the warm beast.
“When I fly with mud on my wings I am bound to crash.”
… “But I am waiting for a break in the storm.”
The green was our home.

Spring 2019