MARTINI
Look how the olive green sunslowly slips into the cold shimmer
of a glass of gin, the evening sky
beginning to glow red as pimento
behind the blue hills. Clouds spread out,
delicate as cocktail napkins, and the birds
begin their scat of warm-up trills,
vibratos, little snips of phrases.
I can hardly wait to see
that evening sun
go down.
~Barbara Crooker
