The wind is cool and brisk,
the sun, it gives no heat;
it's the end of winter,
and I have anxious feet.
To hike the rolling hills,
to walk the secret trail;
where butterflies hang out,
perhaps, some hurried quail.
To scan the sky for hawks,
or,  if in luck,  an eagle;
something grand as that,
something just as regal.
But I'll take a hummingbird,
or a hopping cottontail;
life's full of variation,
and I'm not one to wail.
All I need is random change,
from the traffic's daily roar;
from the din of constant chatter,
those are the days that I live for.