Clearing through pine and the thorns in the thistle. They sang like a kingdom of sirens, a sorrowful serenade trying to uplift some old ancient sorrow, senile and permanent.
They call me to surrender my footsteps, as they lure me into their hiding, then with my ceasing they start their laugh in silent musings.
We’ve got him now, have we.
Like some lost game of sport they wait for my move; a slow step through the long grass, out of their circle, and as I go slowly stepping they all go calling again, crawling along the stems, communicating their wish.
I am Odysseus amidst their fortitude.
They play and laugh, My step so quiet, all are quite serious.
Hearing the crickets in the thistle is like listening to Greek gods
laughing over a cup of lightning.
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