GRADUATED MELODIES
Murphy kept a wren in his bird-farm
pen; flitting and flopping, often enough
it merely seemed confused. The sound
of a Spring meadow kept it out of sorts.
I often felt sad for that bird.
-
That was long before the treacherous
path came through; the bird-farm is
gone now, and is just a few homes
in a tract-housing oval. They called
it 'Progress' in a steamfitter's way.
-
The length of days shortens once more,
and the setting sun has far moved
its position.
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