The straight lines of the flagstones
are precise as a musical bar.
Our slat backs are positioned to place
our legs in the sun. The Old Peculiar
is chilled. Sit up against me, we’ll share
a glass. You can admire my vices and I your wit.
The dog sees visions, roots out
mushrooms from the zebra grass
while the Queen Anne cherry tree
makes a mess the birds can’t match.
We consider dinner as the sun slips
off our feet. Another hatchling flops
out of the eave and a flock of swallows
darkens the sky in a sudden concerted bank to south.