Bad Eye

It's the harsh angle of the sun in August, I think, that tricks my bad eye. In the stillborn space where the walnut tree smothered its lessers with shade, a cape of weedy green masquerades as grass, as lawn, a trickster for my blind spot. In the magnified bright reflecting off the house's siding in afternoon, the mulberry stump sends up a fresh forest of suckers, higher by the day. This is fool's…