Sunrise at the scrub.
Prickly rays drown
the clouds in murky pink.
The bated silence- a feather against skin,
stones tied to limbs.
Where are the flighted creatures?
The humming of the freedom beasts?
The crisp scent of pine needles
hangs
suspended in soupy air.
I try to make friends
With the horseflies.
But they are all bite,
No bark.
I try to understand
the prehistoric body
Of a tight shelled armadillo.
Frozen,
I watch time travel
on its skin
as it continues
its shuffling pursuit.
