We raised gourd houses to the Puple Martin,
Atop a pole, against the fluid sky
Where late jet thunder
Spews in clouds of wonder.
Intense,our Southern sky, like gone dreams
Once heard a night’s aeolian pine,
Felt jonquils in oxblood sod
And simmerimg heat enchanting jejune asphalt.
Less room lies now in sanctuary swamps
For muscadine,fox fire and mocking bird,
For dirt roads through the woods
On hunger’s soulless map.