Being in August

This is what I acknowledge:

Looking down,
all manner of things are moving;
the grass moves in the wind,
the tiny ants scurry up, down and around;
the clover moves beneath my fingers and toes.

Looking up,
the clouds move,
the leaves rustle in the trees,
the birds move on the branches,
my eyes move with it all.

Looking in front,
the water in the sprinkler moves,
the flies move about the lavender,
the bees move at the top of the oregano,
my eyelids move in the sunlight.

Looking behind,
I cannot see anything.