Duerme, Duerme

The bird built her nest from the skins of green walnuts
And at night she counted, counted the feline stars
Then flew, she flew, above the green dawn

How does a bird drink?
No one thought to ask

And in the absence of rain,
a lion served her flutes of bittered, salted dew

The skins of green walnuts seduced the lion--
some turned Moorish brown, others aged more pale--
A mottled confusion, but with scents of home

The lion ate the nest.
Tears dessicated the bird.

Now the bird sleeps, sleeps
Duerme, duerme, for a century (or five hundred, or two)

One green dawn, you will see her
Perched again on a stalk, and counting
Counting the pride's last feeble stars