The Nightingales Of Platres 1 Poem by Morgan Michaels

How they looked I haven't a clue and never will
so don't ask, I never saw them:
though it would seem
they all lived together in a wood atop a hill
for more or less forever
back to where one traced the liens of their song-
and slept rather drowsily, all day long
wing holstering bill
dreaming the dreams that nightingales daydream;

But by night came clamorously alive, cadenzas
floating across the chasms of the dark to the Helvetia's
high-swept window
far above the car park far below,
more, itself, than a little ways away
and alot like Juliet's, I'd bet; from where you heard them sing
and spied along the mountainside
moonlit tributaries gleam, winnowing
the wetlands from the dried.

From there you'd imagine, if not exactly see
(quite as if you were a flea
and rode one's neck's downy mottle)
them descend to the watery muddle-
to the stream's edge,
that is, and much like an hydraulic dredge
scoop mud and other twills
dripping, in the trowels of their bills
while the flood, love-driven, purled and whispered by;

Explode....