Feral Angel

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The feral angel came today 
whirli-gigging the trees,
merry-go-rounding the birds,
plunging them up and down,
like tiny boats on a mighty sea.

When the feral angel bellows
all else is hushed:
the doves cease their cooing,
the starlings refrain their chatter,
and even the querulous rose-rings hush.

And the oft dreamy clouds, now
hitch up their skirts
and scud across the sky,
in a hurry
some place else.

He calls where the trees stand:
deep and sonorous at the papa tree,
of higher pitch at the mama.
And over there,
at the pines,
his voice is the sound
of wave after wave
crashing the pebbled shore
churning the shingles in retreat
and coming and coming
ceaselessly.

And all nature yields
to this feral angel.

 

 

 

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