Even in the oldest epics
there are insects making a din
in the trees, rubbing their tymbals
so the air vibrates; animals
sending up rank cries,
unsettling the otherwise pastoral.
Their name for sex is older, more
forthright. The trees, though:
they raise their banners newly
dotted with milk and cochineal.
They like a pageantry, the way
sometimes in the movies
the eye is drawn to focus
on the crack in the pitcher,
signifying that the parched
ground has been watered.