the woods

olive green and rust brown mix

light streams through the leaves and catches motes betwixt

lines of sun, and displays them against the bark

rough and diamond-shaped of the forest, and the song of a lark


is quiet and warbling, like the sound of the creek

and beyond the close-clustered trees is a mountain's peak

the breeze of spring morning rests on the leaves

and dances in the grove of the sycamore trees.


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