Of course she's not a true red

The city mover beat me

to the chicory

this evening
maybe if I had passed by earlier
I could have caught a glimpse of them
but they will rise
Phoenix like

from the close cropped pile
of grass and weed

and present their brash
and uneven beauty once again
before the need for carpet
and trimming loops of magic
made by subterranean rug weavers

is once again mandated
and duly executed
by the city crew
in the burnt orange cabs
of their ride along mowers

browning the backs of their hands
and letting the heat weather beat
their faces

to match the cabs
and fulfill
some unspoken contract
between landscaping and maintenance
and the gods of Chance
Fortune
as ever
favouring the bold

there will be other routs of the mover
before the Summer is done
and more rain
hopefully
if I can contain
the fear of thunderheads building

and more returns
of visible biodiversity

Nature never surrenders
unconditionally

but
like a lover
choosing her battles

and patiently waiting her chance

like a cat

negotiating quietly
but effectively
after the fact
and making you feel
it was your idea
to fill her feed dish
and let her thrive

all I have to do
is to keep my eyes open
and track
the flight of the cardinal

from beech tree

to cedar

from a million hidden perches
to hydro wire

and back again.