I’ve never heard such a tune from a bird—oh, but this apple’s rot might take one down a ladder’s notch. All to the core you have me bitten, as if I’m the one to suffer from dysentery or rabies. Surely you take a mite-stricken cloth to wipe your face for as mottled a view the world you have. Wisdom stays aloft, branched out of reach, pecked at by the mis-seasoned finch singing through your fungus and blight, gloriously throating late summer’s sun as it pales and tells you goodbye.
