Cahas in clouds fades,
warmth lingering in the wakening pastures.
Shoo, move on,
says Mockingbird. She whose sister
lost the match
of summer last with Great White.
(This spring's nest far
Mocker whose long-lost
dive-bombed us as we crawled out of the old trailer
1,000 miles south
after the terrible storm.
The cousin with babes in
a spare shrub
in the waters that left a Biloxi desert.
North at almost night,
high above No-Name Creek.
Bluebird bids the young.
Half-Angus stir, horse does her little whinny and nod
Storms come here, too,
in other forms.
In blasts of bold, biting winter winds
off Five-Mile Mountain.
Sneaking over the elbow of
Back home to mountains,
those with hidden-song, sun-ned countenance.
Shhh. Night at Cahas.
Sleep now as they wake.
Do the spirits of the mountains
speak over long
to shimmers on grey brining waters
the south-bound sands?
Do they share
Can they touch, gossip, murmur,