The Feral Poet is an enigmatic, sometimes mysterious person.  We learned just the other day that he very nearly had a career as a musician.

Segovia, Montoya, and Me

Begun with a long look
at rain coming down
on a late blue lawn,
then finished with words

encased in wine, my friend explained
that it takes a good guitar years
to get used to being one,
and then, that there is a certain

time of day it plays best.
For some it is morning, before
morning, really,
in the last hours of night.

For others it is a syrupy afternoon
or crumpled evening on a porch.
Rarely is it mid-day.
Mine sleeps against a wall,

dreaming.  Occasionally there is
the brittle hum of insects, and once
an owl flew out of the sound hole
and a man laughed in Spanish.