Every man has his grievance,
like skies' curtains furling and unfurling—
the ever changing state of sadness:
poor health, low light, infestation.
Pounding down on salt.
The crane dance, the loon dance.
Every single patterned step,
each archived movement.
The tongue's brilliant colonial trill.
Every matter tended to, every head bowed.
No heel not kicked up.
James S. Proffitt