And then the binoculars
And there it was the soul
Of the curve-billed thrasher
Atop the ailing orange tree
With his orange-red eye
I mean the song flowing
Out of the same mouth
He digs holes with I find
In my yard what could
He be wanting I wondered
Beetles worms my heart
And then he sang
Love that always
Give itself away
No comments:
Post a Comment