Swing Low Deep black oak leaves shiver among early shadows. Does the blackbird know? Softly, her sweet song soothes and covers the restless night. Muzzled That the wind would sweep me up, that with arms wide I’d embrace it and soar over this wretched waste, I dream. Yet, I am dirt, not clouds. Shall I walk this path at all? No, I dream, lest, I stoop into a crawl … oh LORD … © Michael C Johnson