With the Storm

I carve mockingbirds and quetzals,
my saliva sends the tones to its wings.
Seawater sprouts from my throat,
the orange sun, the green jade;
I hand them over
after chewing them for five centuries.
Once carved I let them free,
                                            astray
in this errant world.
I leave my cry in every one of them,
and the animals that don’t walk
                turn to muck
                              with the storm.

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