On Briarcliff Road a youthful pine tree grows
Choked with coeval wisteria
Whose blossoms hang in heavy clusters like the grape
But dry and empty

And on a Georgia Power line that slices through the tree
Hard by the heavy flowers
A mockingbird dapper in his gray uniform
Flings into the air a heroic song

Neither joy nor sorrow but naked triumph
Fills the august improvisation
With assurance that comes from being the best
The bird fancies himself an aristocrat

Not unlike the bard of Yoknapatawpha
Who doubtless heard this song or similar variations
On the theme of our lost confederacy
And the crimes of our Jim Crow republic

You people think your sins make you human
Why do you so cherish every failure
He cries with the pride of his peerless virtuosity
Alight atop the surging voltage

And the sealed cars swerve down Briarcliff Road
Exceeding a little the posted limit
Past the ruined KFC
And the pine tree struggling under all that beauty