The Mockingbird calls from her nest in the red maple,
The tall silent corn rows whistle in the valley breeze,
Their tall shadows draping cool cloaks of shadow upon the lane,
With the suns heat and light devouring anything in its wake,
I turn my face up and feel the gradual heat of the suns rays,
As he descends behind the rolling purple Appalachians,
I feel the red mulch crunch and poke at my bare feet as I move to stand,
To try in vain to stay in the yellow suns view,
But his fingers of light only faintly creep now in between the branches,
Of trees that surround my hiding place casting a spiders web of lengthening shadows,
I sit back down my feet in the still warm mulch but my hands in the long cool blades of wild garlic,
Slowly the sun disapears and the stars begin to sparkle in the sieve of darkness that now surrounds.
