Thrum

In the Umwelt haze under flippant skies clade toads.
Each toad throat boils its separate air.

Conclaved, hull down.  Enumerated thoughts step
with ratchet, an eye for each, and how lingers the sharp
static of mind.

Do bees lift their bodies humbly, or with each stroke
swell and pose over mirror-ponds, the little narcissists?

Swift and tumble are handles to grasp the flutter and hum
of the unbound, but they blush too much, and cannot recover,
quite, the innocence of wingstroke and plummet.

Do feathers know their names? Does each retrice or remex
proudly indulge its baroque nomen, or do they go by nicknames,
handles, and sundry aliases?

Ground cover primps and postures, brushes out leaf, and branches
each clandestine root.  Fathoms unlayered, admixed? or origami-ed
perhaps? Perhaps some deep structure struck together by each
separate environ, each un-clade, each fold massaged to blade, its
intricacies belying one gestalt.