Summer
Wading through waist deep foxtails (swept
by the brooms
of the wind) she
could smell their gold on siroccos
wafting up in mirage creating waves.

Not a cloud
in the sky, or a
bird
in the air
but that one lone black old vulture
his wingspan a man's height across.

Art Exhibit
fallen blue leaves
translucent glass
scattered on a table
illuminated

rest breathlessly
upon white cloth
still, cold
as glass