The trees wave hails to morning in their sways;
Soft silvered tones on whistled breeze.
As I, fog headed, turn my legs to stroll
Past oaks who’ve seasoned better days.
Fields bare sharp edges to the raging streams,
A thigh of soil green petticoats
Peeled back so far against each rising swell
but something’s always lost in dreams.
The skylark high so all may catch its call,
“See me, see me - I walk the wind”
And I the earth my little friend, I see
Your nest and precious chicks so small.
The fox cub by the wall in red array
Those cunning eyes could catch afire
He flashes thoughts of turn or flight, but stays
For one who needs those fires today.
The barn owl ghost wears silence like a shroud,
Wise eyes that slice into the night.
I watch it swoop and then I turn for home
Back to my madness and the crowd.
[This message has been edited by Grinch (11-05-2006 06:43 PM).]