You'd think you were done with something when it finally gets into print. Anyway that's what I thought. And good riddance, think I to myself. Because there's more than enough new stuff bubbling up in the mind. Why go back (as Barack says: "and relitigate")?  Which sounds all too much like re-littering the gate. So what do you think happens? I wake up this morning with a change to a poem I wrote centuries ago which got published in a spartan volume that sports the title: A RENEGADE OF BIRDS. This happened so long ago that the significance of the piece, if it ever had any, has long flown the coop. Yet the thing needed just a little bitty change. It needed it, I'm telling you. So I dug the thing up and when I looked at the printed page I saw another little something that needed changing. And as I'm typing it into the blog I saw some other little bitty spots that were crying out loud to be fixed. Worst of all, what makes these bitty changes so bitter is "the damned thing" is only eleven lines long! Well, here it is, for better or for worse. With my apologies for looking backward. The poem is called: "Snowbird, Snowbird ", and it's about—well, you'll see when you read it.

" When I'm old I'll go down to Florida.

   I'll take up golf and catch the Early

   Birdies. I'll swim in the bathwaters

   of the Gulf. I'll tail after tarpon. (He's

   the King, you know. Bow! Wow.)

   And at night, each night, as I twiddle

   my thumbs, and watch the failing light,

   I'll be hoping (while also not)

   that that whack I hear is not that wet

   sloe-eyed  'gator at the door—

   that all of us are waiting for. "








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