What Men Don'T See
The neat white fluffy clouds
Are scattered in the face of the growing sun's
Higher in the sky the crescent moon
Hangs faint and ever disappearing
To descend the hour ladder later.
Below under the shades,
The nocturnal survivors
Have round up their night prowling.
While the day's light grows unabated,
The cock wakes from his
Meager sleep and climbs his favorite fence
To wake the lazy.
In midair, the dew still hangs
With holes from bat-flights last night.
Drops of converged dew
Struggle desperately to hold on to
The green leaves at the tip.
But man possessed of the visual curse
Of the delusury glamour of the world
Fails to notice
What even the recuperating owls see.