Ah, comes again this fierce delight
    A colorful bold and spinning mite!
    Hardly hatched I'd say but
    Spun from summer's blooming light
    A tiny penguin nomad, all a bluster
    In your oil on water luster

    But once you sit down at the table you're locked in
    You're alone with the warm mouse smell of the village
    and the mud houses where nothing moves except
    the street contortionist, twisted like history
    everyone wants to suddenly explain

The town lies against
The coal black side of the mountain
As if swept there by music and rain
Squeezed off from the world like a pinched gut
A century or more ago.