Because I am the Tortoise

at risk the gloved little girls
roll geometrically suburban halls
untold by lesser arcana reversed
to ends stuck in this dust bowl
while an automatated seventh calvary
shoots at audiences of everyday plumbers
who keep their technology ornamental
in broken records of first baseball games
we are botanists when the sun comes up
busy reasoning under nine mile cedar shade
no one should be blamed for survival
what is lost in migration is found in photo albums
past the tourist tests in august mankind
we converse with the spirits of campfires