A Madrigal for 3 Voices

Hail the tree's meadow
Where the watch
Fees no property

Where bread crumbs strike
Red raked leaves
Pigeons redden shadow
Under red feet

When pigeons greet
Workers meeting-
In the valley
of the city-
Not a chimney's
made of putty
And the lampposts
are high
high and white-or
red, like
no property of night.