Bryon is weeding black lilies and speedwells
that flaunt their blue blossoms. A towhee calls.

In the blue blooms the bird says cheewink chee.
Rain soaks my clothes but I’m not any cleaner.

I’m soaked and more settled, but nothing is clearer.
In dawn light I settle, see like a painter—

see cadmium yellow cherished by painters.
The kestrel I’ve watched these first days of fall

watches me watching. He startles. It’s fall,
time to mix in quinacridone red.

It paints out nicely—quinacridone red.
To paint the kestrel I breathe in chemicals.

When I paint loveliness, odor of chemicals.
Bryon kneels where the black lilies bloom.