Come the bright morning sun

through dun woods day's begun,

soon its fingers of warmth melt the dew,

creatures stir from the leaves,

birds chirp high in the trees,

while fish leap at all the

flies passing through,

No alarm greets their day,

only instinct will rouse,

sleepy squirrels from the

nests where they dozed,

fragile deer will appear,

with thier quivering ears,

listening for the sharp

cries of the crows.

Warning them to run past

all the pain that's amassed

from cruel bullets or 

stings from men's bows,

one of nature's great charms

using birds for alarms,

while they nibble on

foilage that grows.

In a stirring that's ancient,

the woods comes alive,

daily rituals for the less brave,

all these creatures who scurry,

with a whole lot less worry,

from night predators

sleeping in caves.

It's this dance I peruse,

as I peek from my tent,

viewing life as it passes me by, 

sitting crosslegged and bent

near a small, screened air vent,

like a most joyous voyuer I spy,

yet they'll all dash unspent,

from the threats I'll present

when I exit and they see me rise.

So I'll hold off on breakfast,

my coffee can wait,

as I savor what few people see,

letting them gather foods,

before rudeness intrudes,

Cause I'm forced to go water a tree.

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Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

Matthew F. Blowers III-(C)-2016