The world a canvas; Nature our adorned painter.
Piece splashed with vibrancy all over, yet stood a time about to die.
The leaves of the figures: dancing despite the frigid kiss of North.
Promenading forth and back am I; digesting, devouring, desiring for more.
Alas! Coming forth, the painter’s brush
Dotted with feathered black. The flock ebbing, flowing, pouring over the landscape.
Shadowed over the bodies of my peers, the birds fly in unison.
Now I hear a beautiful, magnificent symphony as the flock the noted bars,
The wind - woodwind; crinkled leaves - percussion; the branches - strings; the trees:
Grouped dancers of ballet, performing the interpretation
Of the dreamt reality set before me.