A line of trees
dances in the distance,
swaying drunkenly
before the slate-roofed
houses boxing forward
like some gray beast
set to blow apart this
summer day.

But in the foreground,
a wide green field
and a single LBJ –
little brown jobbie –
bird of my childhood
singing softly of
something unimportant,
but a song nonetheless…

And to the left
a broken shadecloth
flaps lazily back
and forth so that
I can see
the shape of wind,
feel it rustling
in the eaves,
a whole world
acting as the
backup choir for
a little brown bird:

an eternity in itself.

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