The Naturalist

     wings beating over the meadow,

         a shimmer of dust in your hair as you

      bend, notebook open, the day warm enough

    to taste of chalky sun and honeyed air. You lean closer,

   close enough to see the veins in the sun’s full glare,

  shadows crisp along the stems

    close enough to feel the way a pulse

      hums against the air.  All morning you

         follow it, not for capture, but for

            the moment it trusts you back.

            The moment it trusts you back,

         you follow it, not for capture, but for

      the hum against the air, the way a pulse

    feels close enough to see in light,

   close enough to lean closer still,

close enough to see the veins in the sun’s full glare,

shadows crisp along the stems

    warm enough to taste of chalky sun and honeyed air.

      Notebook open, the day bends you,

         shimmering with dust in your hair,

            wings beating over the meadow.