Their Accustomed Place

 
Forgive me.
For hours I had tried to sleep
and failed;
restless and wild,

I could settle on nothing
and fell, in envy
of the things of darkness
following their sleepy course--

the root and branch, the bloodied beak--
even the screams from the cold leaves
were as red songs that rose and fell
in their accustomed place.

-Mary Oliver

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Photo taken 9/24/2014