The lizards move the ground
taking shadows with them
as prairie birds prune the sagebrush
and the sun does what it wants.
I’d think it all perfect if not for
a store-bought drone ripping it all open
with its kazoo ballad in a stale hover.
From up there it turns us all into ants;
my van into a grain of obsidian
that I will carry down a rhymed road
to stack behind an unmarked grave
of something wild and unnamed.
Published in Blood Moon Poetry, Issue 3, Summer 2021.