We are in a pasture,

you and I;

we are in a green field where

babies are sucking their mothers because

it’s spring,

and flowers are sticking up

through the pointed leafed grasses,

little color spots.

We are rings around the sun

that drape past the trees.

We are ghosts that haunt the field.

We are fleeting deer like Shadows

slipping over the meadow.

Take your camera and

picture that.

by Cher Bibler