When the birds of fleeting flutter by
On their winged chase through tree leaves fly
And call to the day, the merry day
Of a sun born of July
The heady day lays its shadow lies
Short then long as it plies
Trees will walk then wait the midday
Then stroll along the gay horizon
Hear the human echoes and cries
Catch her on the fly, tip your straw hat
She's the color of the day
Of blue azure skies
And then leave it to memories
Dreams may ply
The night's breeze whispers
To the starlight
Morning's caravan
Will come again
All its days shadows
None are ever the same again
Comments
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Mornings do seem a brass band we can't ignore,don't they though! And just like this excellent piece decries. It's routine varies at times. Pleasent distractions or dreadful issues throw us for a loop.Awh life,,,always keeps us guessing.
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