Cold I cocoon myself
encasing the stringy green
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
entwined with weeds,
leaves, cobwebs,
fuzzballs, the flotsam
of the yard
I sweep daily
from 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.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 1.
Roger Camp is a former Marine NCO who daily walks the Seal Beach pier, muses over his orchids, spends afternoons playing blues piano, and reads under an Angel’s trumpet surrounded by a charm of hummingbirds. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals including the Southern Poetry Review, Nimrod, Pank, and is forthcoming in Grey’s Sporting Journal, and Scientific American Magazine.
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