Mockers in the cedar brake,
Ruby-Throats in the bonnets and brush.
Pseudacris crucifer audible over the whine
of a neighbor-kid's dirtbike.
All in the ember-glow of dusk.
The brakes take to shadow,
ambitious jutting in the days' remains.
I walk inside to grab a calculator,
to tally the setting suns-
Fourteen thousand six hundred
plus ninety-six spins of the globe,
give or take.
I walk back outside, and she asks
"What are you doing with that calculator?"
"Writing a poem," I say.
It is mostly dark, and I can't distinguish
bluebonnets from paintbrushes
or see the nubile shoots
of brushy bluestem and clover.
A Cardinal makes a last-ditch call-
Tew! Tew! Tew! Birdy-birdy-birdy-birdy?
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