Blowing acorns out of the trees it’s you!
High with the sun in the afternoon.
Three sheets two the wind,
and still roaming these hills.
Spanning an area from the bird cage bridge
to the windmill and cabin at hack-berry hollow.
In song the boundless aches of the heart,
in the distance a large woodpile,
a hound with a pleasant howl
tactlessly treeing an animal.
You and I like brothers,
buried under an oak,
stricken with cholera,
perched high above the river,
hovering.
If one could only listen,
if one could only understand
what the stark white tree skeletons had to say
in the shaky warm September evening.