Fists of grass 
in my back.  

The hunger 
back and forth 
of the swallows. 
 
The unseen 
of the flies 
about to be  
eaten. 

The shredding 
of a cloud 
against blue. 
 
The blue  
which I know 
is black.  

How  
am I so  
peaceful?  

Ants  
find a way  
around me. 

______

Maya’s micros, February 2025