join the singing forest

in the evening twilight I listen close to the forest keeping the one who is sweeping the blue ghosts he reminds me of a jazzy tom waits color fold the great horned owl singing the endless croon he sings for his mate upon crowning tree tape stuck in the moon barren fixed form of time crying like a lonely old pair of shoes left behind waiting gold into a bronzed silver afternoon they all combine into a frozen ice filled mist his echo is the clockwork in a field of rusty ticks his clock also tocks upon cliff side hollow rocks they dribbled sad but alive and content muses I respond with my cheap recorder flute embarrassment it does the abstract job a fuming of polluted notes in turn the owl flies closer and closer to the heart striking tumor toad roads in a mound sounding chart layered and resoiled in the trouser tripping gowns a cool rain quietly paid the respects of passing clouds we thank this day and night for everything connected the good and the bad and the ugly songs we sing the faces that say we've been places in streams drowning confines of thousand lake mountains placed in the soul of our traversed circulation department conducted like a vagabond in the branding of a chorus in the evening twilight song I join the singing forest