Cascading inward cutting amble down across sticks
Into the blacked, moonlit night
Creating an orchestra throughout the forests from mountain to sea consisting only of chirps
A tune with the coming day’s light
Dumb, however, when the pending morn be cold and wet
A sure sign of bad weather for which to be met
Still to this day, from ancient time
Nature’s own weatherman, who always gets it right, and understands the clime.