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A Note from Elkridge


I love twilight

when breezes are stilled

and the plaintiff call

of the whip-poor-will

can be heard echoing

from the daisy-covered hillside

and banjo frogs bellow their

croaky courting calls

while hummingbirds hover

over salmon colored geraniums

and sip the nectar

from the porch-side feeders,

the red-throated male at one

and the plain female at the other

and I feel my mother looking down on me from high in the firmament,

just past that sliver

of pale blue still left

in the sky, and Mr. C, and grandma

and others that I loved

I feel them there, too

and I just want God to know

I do not take for granted

this little piece of heaven

in my own back yard.

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