It's warm
Muggy sunless morning
The silence is thick in the air
I hear a strange sound
From the direction of the swamp
Where the trees are high
Low shrubbery vegitation galore
Dead trees
And uddles of spanish moss.

Oh Boy !
What is that, I feel on my face
Clouds are thinning out
A hot, dull, round glow appears
Is that the sun?
Peeking between clouds
Now I feel secured.

In the air I still sniff
What's left of my blooming
Jasmines
How can such a lovely miracle
Be so short lived
The scent of Jasmine, that is.

Ah! I caught sight
Of the perpetrator
Making that strange sound
She's perched high on a tree
I don't know her name
It's a white bird
With a long, down curving beak.

I've come to the conclution
That I honestly feel melancholy
For the wonderful chirping songs
Of the Robins and Mockingbirds
They are so numerous
In the northern paradise
I left behind.

Those Catskill mountains
That still beckons me
At this time of year
My heart sill aches for you.


By William Bonilla
10/09/05