A journal of narrative writing.
What the Grasses Wear

Not the yellow of random daffodils or Acacia or Scotch broom, no Not that buttery rich deep egg-yolk Lucent hue; no, nothing quite so kind, More like stale horse urine Rimming a feed pail, or the wrung out Tinge of old linen abandoned on a clothesline; Yes, more like that but no, not quite, Worse in fact, this indescribable pigment, Something the senses should never define Since this shade is tailor-made, What the grasses along the roadside Wear after a nanosecond midnight spray: Pesticide tufts fluttering in young February by pastures where foals Nestle, where the white of manzanitas Shed their bowery of blossoms Like broken rosaries, where The synchronized vines are the cause Of all this increasing disturbance, For the sharpshooter is laying eggs— Over-wintered innocent pest, pinch size Of a penknife, flying at will, riding Brisk ancient winds with moves deemed Counterintuitive to the vintner's interest And thus the assault against it is an intemperate Insistent shock and awe, no matter That the dawn plover runs and pauses In the distressed foliage or the black-tail Briskly drowses in the matted fibers— No matter, no problem where a gross gold Coats everything thicker than pollen.