Bird's NestPrickles of pure mottled morningcascade into your garden.Our shoes lie discardedAs we prance and waltz Barefoot through the clean cut grass.You send the ball through the airwith all the mastery and elegance of a gymnast,perfect, pirouette, and then it glides.Straight to my hands.Envy taints my fingertips.I see you standing there,The ripples of sunlight make your eyes shine.Your six years stand blazing over my sullen five.And I plunge the ball forwards with jealous eyes.The imperfect aim augmentedby the strength of a bitter child.It hurtles through the morning,shattering the branches of a tree.Eight death s