The rundown paths
etched across the landscape
worn down,
sunk into the earth.
Tree roots
puncture the surface
of the crumbling limestone,
fracturing the paths into loose pieces of rock,
clinging together
like water droplets.

The willow,
swaying in the spring breeze,
The sun peeking over the green,
leaves,
outlining,
the willow tree.

The grass,
sweet,
dew drops cling,
slipping,
across the dew-streaked,
waxiness
as the sun glints off the lawn.

The clouds,
flowing,
misty,
The lazy form,
transforming,
from cat,
to turtle,
to dragon,
to that blob that could probably be anything.

The wood pecker,
its beak,
pecking,
drilling,
slowly into the,
majestic oak tree,
humming a logger’s tune

Above,
the blue jay,
sings its notes,
chirping,
to the rhythm,
of the wood pecker,
to the rhythm,
of the swaying of the willow tree
to the rhythm,
of life.