A swaying synthetic tub
waltzes in summer’s breeze
fingers interlocked, one step two,
full of rotted leaves wilted petals,
afterthoughts of Spring’s bloom.

An underdeveloped songbird
basks in the Louisville sunlight,
infrequent chirps of language
misunderstood perceived as
barbaric melodies too primal
for basic understanding. The
song of the bird an audible
reflection of the natural world,
an epitomized version of swaying
bluegrass and beckoning bushes,
of turbulent winds and undulating
clouds, of violet skies lost in the
haze of a brackish day, of a setting
sun glancing one last time at
the eyes refusing to gaze back.

White-specked eggs soon to burst
with new life and freshly glazed
eyes; novel music awaits its
composition, written for the ears
no longer around to hear them sung.