Watching

Above where I sit on the steps
small branches from the oak tree which
arches across the yard
form a lattice with small branches
from the pecan tree which
marks the corner, and in one
of these spaces, a small oak leaf
is caught on a spider web
and spins like a gyroscope
on the afternoon breeze.

In the cool shade of her shed
the goat yawns, a great
awkward, semi-toothed rearing of her head,
before drooping her ears and eyelids.
Now vaguely awake, sprawled in the shade,
head swaying minutely in time
with the great cascading bouquet of crepe myrtles
whose soft purple blossoms bob in the afternoon breeze,
she is at ease,
indistinct from the trees above her
or the floor beneath her
or the rumbling in her rumen--
she knows not hunger nor house nor shade.
She is part of the afternoon stillness,
as natural a phenomenon as the wind,
or the trees
or the rhythmic chewing of her cud
in the cool shade of her shed.

Her jaw extends to the left as she chews,
and her ears bounce slightly with the motion.
She looks at me blankly, head swaying
slightly. She is silent
in her knowledge of things
as they are,
and I sit on the steps,
watching.

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