Poem In The Chinese Manner Living on the banks of the bayou,
I meet few people who care
for poetry or politics.
Early on a foggy morning,
I drink the day's first green tea.
Spider webs thin as a breath stain the grass.
A nutria scuttles into the water.
Four mallards float by in company.
My corrupt government seems far away
and the writing of heron tracks in the mud
may be all the poetry I need.
– Gail White