While mowing the field,
a bluebird swooped by me
after insects the machine stirred up.

I could see its rust belly and
its wings, a slightly different
hue of blue than the spring sky.

It was joined by another,
then another until a half dozen,
or so, whirled and twirled

up and down, round and round
preforming a complicated ballet
around me and the mower.

I was dancing with bluebirds.