The overcast of afternoon silence
comes in waves,
intervals of seconds,
just long enough to notice
I’m alone

in my thoughts of dog days,
being led astray
by sidewalk fame
with names other than
my own,

and locusts, closer than ever,
play castanets for one another,
solving the Morse code
of their surroundings,
saying;

“Yes, maroon does resemble
a sore, bleeding thumb
in this light or prism,
but we find camouflage in it,
for the most part.”

Here, where town meets country,
and pavement meets landscape,
there’s nothing more to say
when the locusts, couldn’t have
said it better.