After Dom Moraes

Today even the feet of the wounded hound
touch the soft leaves in the forest,
feathers glisten out of a shared consequence
of indolence and indulgence,
wings wash their edges in the lake near by,
fins promise themselves a quiet existence.

The party is in the evening
and the guests have worn their natural skin
I settle to light fire,
and watch a distant village look like some place
I could someday return to.

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