I almost miss the deer
that stands still as a heron
on the hillside
on the other side
of the parkway—those long legs
I envy slightly bent.

A male cardinal flaps its wings, red
as patinaed barn doors.

A true sign of August:
the prairie bluestem
has grown taller than me.
Before I turn onto
the western stretch
of the trail, I realize

a simile is like a poem written
by a junior high student.

A metaphor is

a cross-genre piece
telegraphed from an older poet
who recalls a senior level high
on psychedelics. Suburban
turkeys are hesitant aunts.
An invisible and unflappable woman

of a certain age, a female cardinal
flies by. I am soon a turtle

that traverses the morning
dew-drenched grass
beside the lake
that is bleeding
onto the trail
in a true becoming.