24 August 2012

My Amphibious Lullaby

Every night, they sing. We try to discern their meanings, imagine their conversations, picture them sitting by the hundreds in the moonlight, on the water behind the house, barely a breath, only the refrain, the chorus, the verse and the scat and the free flow and the improvisation. In the black of night, as soon as the sun goes down, they sit in rows and sing and sing and sing until dawn.

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Dear Republican Party

First in a series. Hopefully.