In the crowded grove of grasses
grandmothers and aunts sang
lullabies, each one with a voice
louder than the last, some jumped in
while others trilled. Many hind legs
scraped blood vessels on a wing,
a bow against strings of a violin.

And the song was low, enfolding him
as he dove from wheat ear to ground
and then to bush. Even the higher tones
of visitors from town could not undo
his calm, could not move his soul
from the green hammocks rocking him
as the wind swayed, calling him.