Stillness
The hours,
sullen goats grazing on emptiness
drift mutely to the other side of day.
The sun has cast his mid-day net
but doesn't move
to pull in the catch
a chameleon,
two stink bugs stiff after love,
a towhee dozing over the patch of impatiens.
Stillness is making its point,
knowing this
the wind plays dead.
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