Sleepers In The Valley Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Defeated men lunching on their backs,
Indigos flies mining the protuberances,
Lining the sink holes
Nonchalantly
The grasses in interludes of sunlight
Caracols their faces,
A little girl of wind the dear bird,
Flutters coffins in the air,
The very air a sound tomb,
A glass box unknown to other kinds:
An office of nature’s industrious
Metamorphosis,
Recalling things in catalogues of
Heat, strobing amidst the ushering forest.
All in elements of industrious
Husbandry, the fermenting soldiers
Sinking into the green sheets,
Each blade waving like the sea,
The flagrant sun stroking and dabbing
Every lock,
The little birds bobbing to and fro,
Siphoning
As if these were flowers,
As far a field regaled in crimson,
The bugle’s trilling calls more men to dinner.