The stick insect sitting at his stillness
In the little lamp of his belly is an umbrella man
Lost among glittering traffic, and a white head quiet at a problem.
 
A toad is stone-motion, mould-pride, loam-song—
The jewel in this head is the wisdom of this.
 
One I heard three notes of a nightingale in a dark wood.
The moon sailed. A pond shone. A fence waited.
 
A cry that momentarily threatened the earth
Gulped back into a bird the size of an oak-leaf.

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Y. J. Hall Cory Garcia
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