dressed in homespun vest and knitted cap
of greys and blues verging on turquoise,
shot through with violet and hunter's green,
was like a tall heron or an exotic species of crane,
with his tribal sack covered in strange signs
filled with bamboo flutes slung on his back,
said he was hunting the elusive rare notes
and wave forms on country backroads,
and so he walked everywhere, listening.
The wind was his aeolean harp,
his orchestral score, his latest critic.
4/9/2009
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