The season of boding began
With a mockingbird fanfare
That went on to become a whole opera
In any case the leaves got up
And left at such appalling
Imitations of the great masters
But touched somehow by his wild
Enthusiasm and stern sincerity
I stood through his whole concert
Alone in my little yard listening
I was not unaware of the world
Out there spinning around us
Which for him was the single place
He could sing himself entirely
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