Bama

A poem about the South

Among the rubbing sounds of crickets
and the bullfrogs trombone ensemble.
I lay sweating in my great grandmother's
cabin. Inundated by the bareness of my
shifting thoughts. Under the silent flight
of a white owl. Among the rubbing sounds
and the clearing of hoarse throats. I lay in
my great grandmother's cabin, content to
stare out into the starlit heavens. Wanting
and needing nothing this warm southern night.