Bluebirds Can't See The Color Blue

I die daily to uplifting transgressions of nature,
the blow holes of some errant god
who created disruption, exactitudes of chaos.
My restless eyes demand
infinite fields of privation.
I am fixated on weather's irrational bias,
the forced entry of beauty screaming
from cloud-licked skies.
I relentlessly doubt dogmatic order
and float on rivers that heckle boulders by bending.


© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Sept. 12, Sundance

'Hay' you? Want to go on a hike?

Hey, there's a rusty old swing set over there in the woods...

Hey, those gossamer-like dried flowers look pretty...

Hey man, you can't stop beauty, don't even try...

Hey, there's the horses my friend, Richard Murray painted in the Foundry Grill

(more at bottom of blog)

Hey dude, that's a pretty cool haircut you've got there...

Hey, that's a pretty flower over there. Looks like a Begian Lily or Cosmos...

Hey, there's some Sunflowers right here in the parking lot.

Hey, what did you say?... What?... You're tired of me saying 'hey' and you won't ever hike with me again if I don't simma downa? Hey, OK. I'll quit.