(Destroyed by Drought

and Borers)


Your rustle sounded of light feathers

migrating into night.


At dawn I watched you skimming grass,

a white stroke

sketched upward out of green,

breeze lifted

by slender drooping branches.


Your leaves shimmered at high noon.


What you lacked was pond, marsh,

the brotherhood of reeds.

Hatched here on this dry infested plain

you sought dark moving water,

found searing sky.


In cool shadows

the fine parchment of your heron limbs

rose into dusk.

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