Under the golden avocado by Roger Camp

Cold I cocoon myself

encasing the stringy body

of the hammock around me,

camouflaged to sleep.

 

Waking to tittering bushtits

flitting through the leaves,

their jittery flight

showering me

 

in golden-green efflorescences

my wife

picks out of my hair

at dinner.

 

I follow a female’s

dodgy flight

discovering a pendulous

woven wonder

 

a slapdash sac

tweaked with weeds,

cobwebs, tuffs of hair,

fuzz balls, the flotsam

 

of the yard

I sweep daily

under the tree.

Cleverly bearded

 

suspended by an improbable thread,

it mirrors my own ramshackle bed.

Two nesters swaddled in green

cradling each to sleep.

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