the girl with bright blue eyes and music notes in her stride
had fiery hair that nested seven birds.
summoned by her curls and her cries,
every morning came the sane lullaby.
the notes littered the air like they were always there
and the girl chased them with delicate hands.
each note was elite with the ripeness of the orchard
and all she would sip the sweet juice of the sound.
the wind angrily puffed on his rancid pipe
and those birds blew the notes higher,
the far sweet song suddenly a slander
and on the girl would gander.
she rode the nose of a beagle
until she stumbled straight off the song sheet.
the birds flapped away forever and a day
with the verminous strength of an eagle
but like a pin she dropped to the death.
her curls fell away like splinters of hay
and her eyes dripped into the ocean.
and on the tip of her tongue came the sound of a song
that you hear when the white horses are in motion