Whenever she starts to sing, I start to think
about the birds, their phrases and their tone
from in the branches. The way they move real quick
from tree to tree, I drink a muscadine wine
and sleep in the swamp. It is the birds that make
the most beautiful of songs, then I think of mine
and am embarrassed. I am beginning to look
at how the leaves are shaped, how they form perfect
symmetries and measures. The soil that takes
the seeds of oaks is the ground of a soft ballet
that dances in the air. The little flowers blink
in the morning light, they reveal her secret
music and fragrance. I walk to the riverbank
and wonder how I ended up so drunk.
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