Bright molten green
Drips down toward his wing,
His fine lady plainly stays dappled;
An impromptu discourse
Adorns my damp yard;
Whilst
wobbling webbed feet
Appear shackled...
He eyes her small speckles
Of soft, winsome brown,
Melded 'round pin-tips of gray;
The rain glistens down,
And stirs up sweet sounds,
As those two
Look forward to May !
poem by L.P.-G / copyright April 2023
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