Caverns lie below the sod amongst the bamboo root runners
that zigzag like rebar framing the topsoil above the clay;
the protective grasses impart a landing of stability.
Underneath the bamboo, honeysuckle and wisteria
forest parallel to the house, brown thrashers scratch at dead leaves
for grubs and scavenging insects that burrow the wet debris.
Distant woodpecker jack-hammering echoes on the dank air
as two squirrels gallop along the canopy on the left side:
a pear, a poplar and a phalanx of pines piercing the sky.
Various birds zero in and radiate out on a loop
to gorge from the feeder always full on the neighbors brick fence
as the pine shadows march across the yard and grow longer.
In the midst of the parade towards dark, in the door crevice
a small green lizard scratches out into the sun to recharge;
the ruby disk of his throat balloons out in self-promotion.
A mockingbird fans his wings with mechanical staccato
the white patch a beacon to a like-minded mockingbird grey
under the puffy cumuli floating in the vernal blue.
The crosshatch spring breeze animates the plum trees, filtering light
dappled on the ground into kaleidoscopic monotones—
shifting like a hive on a honeycomb, treasure underneath.