A true story
A surveyor’s stake with a hot pink flag
stood sentinel above the highway’s bank
The wisp of marker tape fluttering free
as wind sailed by above the commuting
cars which sped along the road each morning
Seeing the flutter who could help but ask
what was being staked out, what was measured
so far from the shoulder and the pavement.
But there, mere yards away from the marker
Another straight and still above the road
not so gaily flagged but a stroke of white
dashed near the top of the brown and black head
Looking again, I saw the eyes first one
then the other meet my own, and fly off.
