I listen to my headbangers
having arguments with God
visiting a tired ornament
hanging a stiff towel.

As if the trees were descended
from them.  As if the sun hatched.
As if they were watching.

The roots wind and touch.
The current's knife
carving through their background
its enumeration of music
sweet as the rain that runs between her
a cleft earth.

Miracles that will break their chairs
wait behind spiked fences.
Oyster stacked grenades
eyeing from their own
thumb worn coffee cups.

Time's bar of running trails
rippling across the stillness
like salt's reflection.