Colin F. Jones


His shadow merged in with the trees,
His feet in the debris underneath,
Moving only when the gentle breeze
Moved the branch to drop its leaf.
He quietly drank from the reservoir;
The ant lake in the covered fork
Where all the tiny creatures are
That powder the feathers of the stork
That moves in stealth through swampy scapes
Where water mixes shadow with light,
Reflecting a myriad of hues and shapes
To distort the pupil of the searching eye.
Wherefrom his life the guard escapes,
Quite unaware that he has died.