The cold and the callous met wholly in me
when I saw her dance ‘neath the sycamore tree,
silently eying the spin of her skirt,
how each flighty foot skipped about in the dirt.

A crowd gathered ‘round her, clothes caked with dust—
farm-hands with words full of liquor and lust
desiring her as a hound drools for meat.
I swallowed my cider and rose to my feet,

a snake through the crowd in pursuit of my stare,  
plucking her fresh as she floated in air.  
And wholly, the cold and the callous decayed
as I danced with her ‘neath the sycamore shade.