Once I could say my loyal friend, the house wren. I might even sing to him. Did I not hear the beatific, the breathlessness— a patter shaking the tamarind pod, the bright green feathery foliage stammered by a breeze? Those muttering implosions, did nothing intend them?
Is the harp, too, obsolete?
When the wren took his awl
to the infested branch
he fed me an idea there.
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