Mist the Oak Tree by wabberjocky
I heard a chuck-will call
through the dark of morning,
his song never failing
even as the first light
made ghosts from last night's rain.
So rare, the chuck-will's call.
I'd mourned him years ago and given up hope
of hearing his bright flute pierce the predawn,
summoning misty dancers
to a solo waltz through the oaks.
Their luminous gowns swirled in perfect time to his ominous song:
Chuck- Will's- Widow
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