The mockingbird is stalking worms in August grass—
Slowly snaring thoughts, the poet admires her grace:
Head tilted, listening. . .listening—stillness—Distracted
Not at all by the dew drying in the Sun, white dots
Of perfect light; nor by the chatter-flapping finches,
Nor the urban hum of rush hour Sepulveda Boulevard.
Listening, still—until the right kind of disturbance occurs
And she pounces, undistracted by the Sun on the dew,
Or the mockingbird stalking worms in the August grass.