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