The day is still; the sun will shine
Full glorious after its rise.
Where sun-rays reach I see the sky
Blue enough but slightly hesitant.
“Should I gray over gradually
By making common cause with that
Thin mist? Or should I wash my face
And comb my hair and reach for the
Deep blue?”
That season is but days
Away when squirrels, who ignore
The calendar, at this still early
Hour are avidly collecting
Nest-making debris and nuts,
And below tight-clustered tomato
Plants, seek spots easy to dig
In pots to store their treasuries.
But where I wonder are the birds?
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