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.







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