Kestrel friend,
Wicker-wired pebble caster
Pattering across the billowing wastes
Leather flap encumbered and jangling
Of your master’s key.
Spread your puffy willow throat
And cry the way I told you,
The way the skyburst oysters do
In my father’s country.
The winds smell of persimmon and ivory,
Swaying the rough-shinned date palms
Whispering outside our door
Like anxious matrons.
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