by Frank Cook (1980’s)
Alone, I sit at break of day Upon a hillside's wooded brow. The sun has not yet shown its face. The woods are still and dark for now. High above and all around Rise elm and oak and maple trees. The fading starlight silhouettes Majestic, black-lace canopies. Slowly, slowly, light begins To use its palette on the scene, And soon that magic moment comes When leaves are changed from black to green. And now the sun begins to peek Above the line of eastern hills; And life returns into these woods. It stirs among the rocks and rills. Though life was never really gone; Man's mind is simply unaware Of many sights and sounds and smells That stir within the nighttime air. Br'er Rabbit, Possum, Fox, and Squirrel Each begin their morning role In this community of life, Here upon this wooded knoll. So with regret I walk away, My rifle shouldered and unfired. Its purpose near forgotten while The morning's tranquil scenes transpired. I ne'er returned to those green woods Upon that hillside's wooded brow. That spot of green is covered with A little row of houses now.
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