In the place called Florida, where I see my parents twice a year--
There are no pumas on mountains, no grizzlies or auks.
The sun looks down and
The lizard steps from the bush,
Liquid red, like the flower he hides behind.
A brilliant popping of lightning writes in the sky--
Very far, will it soon be here?
The antelope graze elsewhere, here thrive fiery fauna 
     and tunneling malls.
The hammer of finance strikes in the glade, shortens the canal, and 
     banishes tweet and twitter.

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