Where leaf break and pine blue the ground,
needles and cones lift fragrance in congress with the soft acidic rot of root and vine.

Mourning doves croon away and away.
Nightjars fall to their black feasts.

Cypress knees eternally stretch or bend in water so black it drinks clean.

The pirates are long ago gone.  Their treasure chests, if ever they were,
sink deeper toward the core of never been

in this little song of croak and lift and the old moon falling again.