The old oak is draped
in Spanish moss
under whose shade,
we lay.
Two bodies
lying crosshatched,
point of intersections,
intimacy of avenues,
boulevard of contented sighs,
we are lulled by the sounds
of blue-greened fowl.
Dancing in arrogant male fashion
each has their particular swagger
plumed and crested, preening
to look their best, all in the hopes
of a quick coupling.
You too have preened and pranced
to look your best, my eyes
attest your truth, unable to look
away, I have been lured, wooed
and so I lie in your arms.
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