Deep on Chameleon Street
beneath a canopy of trees
children free dandelion seeds
in a fierce stampede of feet.
The little parachutes mirror dust
that bedecks the air.
Steel songs ring from
a chisel’s slippery slope and
collide with the liquid trill
of two wood thrush volleying
a back and forth dance
of voice blending into din.
White flecks fling as a steel point
uncovers an angel hidden in stone.
Up, from alabaster flesh it rises.
One eye surveys the tapestry it joins
to commemorate the soldiers
who pain our nation's soul.
Its wings linger inside calcite
waiting to be chiseled into being.