And so it goes
that each sunrise as the sky opens and spills her colors o’er the wooded hills,
the birds sweetly sing and go about their morning
with a punctuality in worm catching like no other.
And, deep in those sky-drenched woods,
the frogs croak sullenly ‘round golden globes clinched tightly in their jaws,
dull and slick from years wasted in scummy ponds.
All the while, the birds sing harmony with the crickets,
a chorus loved by all and heard by none,
save the owners of the hands searching through shadow, mist, and muck –
children who are awake far past their bedtime
or perhaps simply lost in their dreams.