As the southern
evening bells
rang,
I banged
the skin drum
and sang:
“Yah, yah hey yah hah!”

Then rubbed I
the dugout canoe,
and dreamed,
and cared not
who heard my chanted prayer,
nor that I got splinters
in my hand.

I thought of she
and he,
and that they
might be better.

But observational joy
is never a contest.