There's touch to water of dark mouths:
The lips of dashing Deer.
Tucked in safe is all the South,
But out I am: no fear.
Ripples dance, collecting-
Everything that they can stash,
But no rasping from the River-
Coughing up their little trash.
Moons drift on the Mississippi.
Fire-flies take flight.
Beauty bathes in cotton fields
For She is brave tonight.
Kyle Hamp
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moons-drift-on-the-mississippi/
