River edge at the yawning of
the delta, I hear cottonwoods rattle
voices like people, low by campfires
scraping washboards and snapping
strings; soft footed fast picking
thieves run with shadows.
Beating drums stretch the skin
of messages released under
wide blue free skies of music calling.
Red dusty roads rise up
stormy jazzy winds,
brassy horns and loose strings
fall out a sound of notes spilling
like rain; oh how I love the
clean washing of the skin.
The planets of thought turn
in hearts of moon faced men
sitting and slapping out words
and thinking about sin.
Roger Singer 