There go the grasshoppers,
there goes the wheat.
We don’t have a single word
for the wheat ear.

Next to the cut field
a finch alternates between
tossing thistledown and
attacking the picture window,
even if I stand there
waving my arms.

I was seated before an ant.
The ant drug a caterpillar
twenty times its own weight,
subtle as an oven rack.
This is nothing, he said
and never considered my shadow.

Most of us think a drop
of antique oil
on a puddle is pretty.

We anoint bodies and houses
on foreheads and lintels.
But where to bless a field?
Put away your map for now.
A little wind will nudge you.
You are better than
the blue affection of television.
Remember, not every answer
has your name in it.

John Poch