Song of the Farm

Sing the buzz and the bleat
and the bark of the dogged and sheepish
the rusty squeak of the guinea fowl in the far corner roost
where the clucks fall in with the gutter's drip
and the hiss of the teet!
Lavendar pastures turn to gold
as the last gasp of the James' morning breath climbs up creek
and evaporates into the blue hole heavens and white eaves of a banner day.

The crickets start their massive chatter
like over-heated traffic negotiating the food chain exits of the interstate
white noise fading in and out of consciousness,
once loud like the backfire of a fat leatherneck's chopper
hogging the highways and byways of your crowded mind
the sudden sound of a tailpipe clunker from last year's tax return pick-up
richochets off the spotless bumper of a soccer mom's minivan
bounces between the hanging limbs of oak trees and pine needles
sycamore saplings and telephone wire covered in vine.

Local vanity speaks of private reverie and civil righteousness
as it was written by the scribe of some forgotten king
in the folklore legends of the "oldest mountains in the world"
Tall tales told by the downtown quack of another old man's uphill fight
the homesteader's plight, family ties, black eyes and coal mines
gossipers follow the line of a lunch time buffet and suit of a holiday parade,
a celebrated soccer game with junebug balloons and a dulcimer tune
flowers adorn the french braids of the milkmaids
sipping tea cups with mint and echinacea
speaking of the Nubian princess
as she plays with Gregory the Toad Prince
in the gardens of the Queen.

The King carries on
merry as the dulcimer's endless go round
telling secrets of long lost brothers in faraway lands
the precious knowledge revealed between years of separation
miles and miles of untold rivers and wood
now so easily distilled in a familiar beer
making material the years
fingered like foreign coins
in a turtle shell change purse
as the shadows stretch over the land
and the tracks of the train shadow the James

Private dreams shared are prayers to a rising cresent moon
Hopeful as half smiles and a list of baby names
Bold as a rain dance and the transister radio's mechanical promise
The Final Truth looming above Pergatory Mountain
back lit by the last rays of a dying summer day's reach
dark and distinguished, whispering capable
flying on the soft winds between the fireflies
and the evening boomers.