I sit in an arm-back chair at ease in the early evening
Waiting for each poem he reels off his new used machine.
I know they will be coon dogs, their yellows dripping with cold.  
And in their lines there will be geese,
Whose long necks will outstretch into the dark.  And these geese
Will see their cousins, the swamp's plants huddled within their stalks.

In the mud-dried yards, distended ribs guarding against the winter cold,
The coon dogs will stand, feet planted securely against the night, and
Bay at the moon.  While I in my arm-back chair will laugh at the man
Who reels the coon dogs out of his new used machine.
 
 ---James Bolner, Sr.
Baton Rouge, LA, circa 1975