and the living is easy

the moon is soup
stirring the alphabet around the sky
of a crocodile spine. The clouds are
scales, silver lined lavender. The blue
is a swamp of enchanted racquet balls,
too well fed to bounce.

The crickets shake tambourines
syncing up the echos off each blade of grass.
The bullfrogs pluck slow walked basslines
on the edge of the lower field. The fallen logs
in the tree line to the left step down to the bog bottom
of tabla, strut to skip back up. The sticks are chiropractors
cracking the back of strummed space. The owls
weave screech through the patterns emerging
from his panorama.

He is whittling a pencil
with the sharpened edge
of a leaf of loose paper,
under the nearly full moon
of July. He is carving a jar
to capture the lightening bugs,
attempting to record tonight's
performance.