Thursday, April 26, 2012

All up in our busy-ness



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
from foe.)
Mocker whose long-lost
cousin
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
not taken
in the waters that left a Biloxi desert.


North at almost night,
high above No-Name Creek.
A-bed,
Bluebird bids the young.


Half-Angus stir, horse does her little whinny and nod
for carrots.


Storms come here, too, 
in other forms.
In blasts of bold, biting winter winds
off Five-Mile Mountain.
Sneaking over the elbow of
Cahas.
Back home to mountains,
missing
Biloxi
missing
shrimpers
missing
trawler
missing
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 
winds,
through mistrals,
to shimmers on grey brining waters
just beyond
the south-bound sands?
Do they share
our names?
Can they touch, gossip, murmur,
cloud-borne?

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