And why do you reckon there are so many cameras proliferating?
It’s certainly not for the narcs.
So many symbols for eyes.
So many replications or extensions of the real eyes.
And why put daisies along the trail?
Why pepper the hillsides with mustard?
Why the edge of the cloud orange only when the sun ignites it?
And the old scolding lady on the trail with fake yellow hair begging for importance, yearning to set the world straight by the story in her head.
A beetle in the rocks.
The most beautiful of quail, and one splashes right into the face –
surprise. . . it’s dawn.
Thirteen spider webs wrapped around a skull cruising through.
And all those eyes.
Little ones on humming birds.
A rare nature camera strapped to a pole.
Eyes of flies.
Eyes of frogs just below a strangely bending line of water.
The dog’s eyes extending mine.
And a final image back on the city road, like a kick in the eye:
An asphalt dinosaur crane machine colored white,
yellow vest man atop,
cat-track rolling treads crunching across the pavement.
Men moving mountains at the day’s beginning.
Reckoning the eyes:
All of them, even the fake camera ones,
urging the closed ones to open.
Urging an awakening.
Gathering up witnesses for the birth of God.