The wind is a whistle
as I sit beside the thistle
A book for an arm’s rest
The river is at zest
A fisherman’s flung hook
with ripples the stream shook
Quietly the trees whisper
as the noon gets crisper
A fence around the farm
corrals the sheep’s swarm
I breathe this dance of nature
just for today, if not the future
For my eyes are overcast with disdain
My urban heart sinks with pain
Still laughs the open country
before it is consumed by the city
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