I stand perfect, arrogant with life
in this field, refusing to choose which
is more, the golden hills of rudbeckia
tumbling after one another,
Canada thistle foaming around
spindles of Timothy grass. Not even
doilies of Queen Anne’s Lace,
a neck above the rest, court my favor,
nor I theirs.
We are all winners
or there are none. Bee. Moth.
Hawk. Vole. Sky over. Sun falling. We
proudly pose until the next rising.