The Photographer Waited On The Hill
In The Still-Air Silence.

Waited For A Captivating Moment
To Capture On Film.

Three Birds Seen On The Underground
Not One Your Average Pigeon
These Were Of Another Feather
And A Much More Sightly Vision

One In Plumage Yellow And Green
With Skin Of Malted Hops
A Glittered Chest That Swayed With The Train
As It Rattled Between The Stops

The Vision
Waking A Sleeping Wetness
A Gargling Saliva In The Throat
A Fast Heart Beating
Swaying And See-Saw Tottering On The Edge Of The Cliff Top
That Looks Down Upon Dashing Rocks
And Unfurled, Billowing Sails In A Wind Of Breathlessness

The Vision
That Eyes Map
Cartographers Of The Soul
And Blazing In A Burning Of Spirits
Consuming All In Their Path
Blinking In A Ragged, Gasping Breath Of Sight
Blinkered In Their Tunnel Visioned View