IN MY BACKYARD

Never has this oak
Been more manifest.
It moves softly
In the Spring breeze
Its catkins writhing
With saffron pollen.

Beneath is
A holly leafed cherry
The canvas upon which
Its shadows play. Alongside
Are rocks, their lichened faces
Washed clean in sunlight…

Or plunged into abyssal shadow.
High above, there is the rumble of
A wide-bodied jet. It looks
Like an etiolated shark cleaving
The wide blue empyrean
As it arrows towards LAX…

There to disgorge People
Or Product into the gaping
Maw of Los Angeles.
A counterpoint to my natural
Idyll. An aerial interloper
Into my backyard wilderness.

These: oak and plane
Are different modes of Beingness.
Both manifest this afternoon
As a conundrum set to tease
My aesthetic and philosophic
Senses.