Saturday, October 08, 2005
Turn, Turn
Across the sky, the brisk northerly winds steer
white clouds, reflected in the pond's blue mirror.
From the hillside bench, I then turn to hear,
the yellow vireo's call, soft but still clear.
All summer he's brought our garden great cheer,
but this may be his farewell song I now fear.
I wonder if like me, the vireo sheds a tear,
For the ending of another gardening year?
// posted by IBOY @ 5:18 PM 
