Every spring, I fall into summer before winter breaks my will. I wallow in water up to my knees, a cadence and rhythm floats on the breeze. Easy it seems to follow a path, tasteless it seems to filter the draft. The cold meadow lasts until August at best, the old weather asks for patience and rest. Metal hewn fence, perches bold little finch, tripping the sun into play. Her nest is a wrench, a wristwatch and bench idling along the Bay. Chesapeake rum oil running the vessel to bed like the water that fills up my head. In my stead, you find a copper muse, a painted glory, grown and used. Stringless sound of sacred bird singers, salt wood sold for Bombay.
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