it sang to them
to these fawns of the whistling machines
spoke in tongues of knots
of callouses and caves
they perked their ears to the sound
so silent and stunning
a melody of mammoth
a groove of gargantuan
not wanting, not needing
yet still they danced
heaving in the overgrowth of the disco
a rural regime
the moonshine militia
marching and carving into the boom boom beckoning
of the bang bang beat
they climbed up to it, onto it, into it
so desperate to be part
this swallowing sound, the sweetly suffocating
they burrowed past mothers
past fathers, past martyrs
to the thundering thumps of the heart
and they only lived to listen
and they sang the song of the hills
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