Knows her way around

A warm breeze off the grassy shoulder of a distant hill
Jostle the colorful young faces of wildflowers
Their tiny heads bobbing in a kind of syncopated chaos
They turn and nod, they lift to the sky, they bow
Sandy floor dabbed with sage and desert grass lay open
Tiny birds 3 in count, dance air-loft like drunks stumbling home
Weaving, bouncing up a step, down a step, up two, stumble one
Tripping on hot air from the devil’s harangue from long ago
On a patio of bisque-fired pavers, in a low-slung sack like chair
Creating the world’s smallest tornado of vodka and vermouth
Sporting mirrored sunglasses reflecting my own garish grin
Is the only flower who seems to know her way around a warm breeze
Off the grassy shoulder of a distant hill