The wind is a tattletale
Spilling out secrets of the forest
Never to be heard by human ears
The moon blooms near,
its imperfections, easily seen;
Blushing a bright yellow
Scents of mildew rise from the grass;
A fragrance of Romantic delight
Naturally produced by the clouds’ tears.
As birds dart out of an oak tree,
similar to a discharged missile, shooting
straight into the night's black attire
A nestling falls out of an oak tree,
like an airplane crashing into the World Trade Center
in the vicinity of a single squirrel.
He picks up the bird's odor, suchlike
A bloodhound on a scent, recoils
Causing the bird to take flight
Recklessly back into the tree,
striking leaves as he approaches his nest,
Knocking down a green acorn
The squirrel scurries toward the acorn;
Snatching it from the ground, bipedal locomotion,
And rushes into the thick, spiky rose bushes.