A rose, pre-bloom, gives rooms a swoon
with June looming we ‘true-lovers’ croon
to whom we love like the singing loon
on ponds, far below, during foggy dawns.

Her lilting song travels on light gusts
a dusky hue with wafting musk
silhouette sits still in the opposite dusk
while fawns nibble delicate fronds.

A valley beneath wreathed in mist
gentle breezes distort and twist
two geese entwined in a lovers tryst
float along blowing jazz sax songs.

A fox awakens to the sounds
to the ponds edge, down and around,
he hunkers low to watch them drown
in broad strokes he follows along.

The ensuing gloom sends the loon to soar
as she can stand to watch no more
blood and feathers find the shore
a fox, engorged, yips his song.  /