Sandwiched between

Two trees,

Above fertile soil, and

Below a crescent moon.

Temporarily catching leaves

&

Other debris that falls with  the

Changing

Autumn winds.

Illuminated by a variety of lights,

Some occurring naturally and some

Enduring artificially.

(Depending on the time of year)

It has the potential

&

Kinetic energy to match the hanging laundry,

Some socks,

Some shirts and

Some white sheets that can flutter so violently,

They will emerge as flame;

Bearing a titular resemblance to the smoldering phoenix.

And may be mistaken for suburban forest fires

Or

Sun-spots among the vast cul-de-sacs,

That are communities

Among already communities.

While the laundry in question is

Left to dry on the line,

Left to try for a time. 

Dancing erratically in between gusts,

They can appear as one other if only a glance was to be spared.

And it  is a wonder why there are  not more mirrors outdoors

                                                                                                                                       mirrors outdoors

 Both  live in constant suspension,

Like swinging bridges,

With the constant fear they may one day take

Flight unexpectedly,

Or plunge unexpectedly

As some birds in infancy, surely have thought.

Coming unhinged,

Feathers and all,

And

Soaring up into the stratosphere.

Breaking through  tangled canopies of

Violins & vines;

Looking down,

And initially

Knowing only

Nausea and

Anxiety

But soon

Discovering sportsmanship and ferocity ,

-As if they were neighbors

Chaperoned by symphonies that pilot chariots,

That descend unto

The cities below.

Snaking through alleyways and steamy grates,

Watching people participate as ants

&

Ants

Incapacitate the people.

Sometimes the hammock will endure wind gusts like

Intermittent tornadoes,

And is twisted in on itself,

Its ropes on both sides twisting with so much friction…

So much fiction…

And when those same savage winds move on,

&

Dissipate like melting ice cream,

(Ice cream cones that look like tornadoes, at least in form, minus the color and taste of strawberries.)

The hammock will unwind  in a fashion similar to  its usual occupants,

But at speeds that create gusts and

Craters of their own,

Forming moons and

Plots of land that

Will never have a mayor

Or a pristine golf course,

Or a gold mine.

All of which would require a sprinkle of humanity,

On top of something that already looks like a croissant,

A condition that the shady spot under the hammock can not sustain

(Because there is no bakery)

Because this  would also require

 Some excessively large scissors

In order to cut the  ribbon

Which would be either

Yellow or red

In color.

&

Immeasurable in length.