There’s a festival of stilt walkers crossing the meadow.
The slow ascending sweep of their torsos,
The measured declivity of their glide.
Oblivious to their own grace,
Like mammoths lost in sway.
The burr of summer grass catches at their knees,
Distal sunlight plunges into their bodies,
The earth a prosthetic distance beneath them.
Their shadows touch the field
As they themselves cannot.
A flair of color still attends their clothing,
Broken stories attend their tongue,
Fracture-lined photos and the migrant
Odor of hearth-smoke.
When they raise their arms to God,
God returns one fastidious eye from the disturbed
Depth of His slumber,
Finds little to warrant His speaking . . .
A cavalcade of stilt-walkers,
Faces burnished brown.