for the birds’ early morning baths
and sweep the dim or moonlit paths
of today’s leftover leaves and doubt
with brief pauses to smell
the desert roses their’s
a strictly intellectual scent
with undertones of irony and mint
in the colors of fresh wounds
how can I ever thank them enough
for being here with me in the dark
with their last offerings before
cold nights pull them back underground
I sit for a while with the dead grass
keening and the new grass singing
just to enjoy their lovemaking sounds
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