The sonic boom of siamangs
Is carried on the morning air
In rumbles that become a blare.

They whoop it up in frenzied gangs,
Increasing their intensity
With volume, pitch, and frequency.

No sooner do I hear them call
Than something makes me want to run
To where the racket's coming from.

Although it sounds just like a brawl,
Their hooting, shrieking voices seem
To illustrate a jungle dream.

Too often we go through the day
Without a sense of lively play;
The siamangs let loose to show
Us how it's done by those who know.

©2017 Michael Fraley

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