a poem by Roger B Rueda
We bow our heads
and utter words
not to the crickets
speaking through
a rainy night or
the creepy-crawlies
crawling slowly
across the leaf
searching for the edge.
We bid the rook
silent, the child
to sleep, the cat crying
his hunger and lust
to crawl under a veranda
awaiting morning.
The stream runs
slowly by, carrying
a blade of grass
and the early fallen leaf.
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