is not the raucousness
of a football game
the murmurs of a
tennis nail-biter or
drums of a soccer match
the real Sunday
is the snores of you me
and a small breeze
and the wheeze
of a dog napping
that chorus of yawns
from hammocks sofas
leaves and hidden birds
that float up from
backyards
the real Sunday is
the single cloud that stops
in the middle of a hot blue sky
when it hears that
rising
from below
with a mere glance leaves tell you how they feel I’d like to learn the finer points of body language something more than just the “Hi” of a person’s stem
the birth colors of mesquite leaves or baby’s skin something with the tint of innocence in the scheme of emergence translucent spirit not a shade darker
it rained late last night leaves cleaned green and dripping wet a dog shakes itself the pen’s side of life same struggle for survival poems find heroes the big black raven perches and picks at the tra