Good morning, Abba.

The earth cries out Your name today.
The stars have ceased their songs in awe of Morning’s,
but trees just sing along.
The air is crisp and clean
The sun burned ‘way any remaining drips
of summer’s humidity.

The trees, their leaves are vibrant green
Just the smallest hint of autumn yellow,
discernible only to a season professional,
that could otherwise be mistaken as golden drops of sun
held fast, by the leaves’ refusal to let go.

The mist rises from the grassy hill as the world stretches
and the blue-grey blanket of night slides off
like silk sheets.

The birds giggle in the morning sun,
not drunk with it, just giddy
like school-children, they can’t stop talking
and flitting about for lessons.
Why should they? They’re birds.

It is what they are, and what they do,
ceasing only for the night
to sing more voraciously
in the morn.

The children of Nature, of summer
and of spring, of autumn.
Oh God, protect their joy through winter’s cold,
that spring will greet me with their song.


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