Observing
your movements,
measuring
from a distance
the angled
shadows of your flight –
you the
razor-winged dragonfly
creasing the
surface of the pond with
darning-needle
toenails, I the flat
fat-bellied
horned toad pressing myself
down into a
toad-friendly depression
along the
sandy bank – if I squeeze
shut my
wrinkled horny-toad eyes, my
inner
cinema shivers and shifts
to the wind
of your flight.
Water striders
scatter left and right,
ripples in
the glass look like laugh
lines, promising
safe passage
through the
early morning mist.
