Black mustard branches fill up their spaces
With matching dances, grasses shake
In a slow roll conversation.
One bird, then another, rides the wire,
Then a call and response from where
They are invisible.
The purples, blues and yellows
Tangle and intertwine
As if they're vying for life
Not posing for the discernment
Of the eye.
The trees shiver, as if to say
"No, you don't know me at all.
I am only a figment
Of your imago,
"There's a bare minimum of color,
Light and sound for you now
In order to create."
