I love the soft early hours
Of a country summer morn,
As the cool mists rise
Along the creek,
Following the water
From dewy ground
Through the trees,
And from there to the sky
Where it veils the birthing sun
Just appearing from behind
The rounded peaks
Of the ancient Smokies.
The nocturnal owls whoos
Giveway to the chipper notes
Of songbirds
And farmers' chickens
And the lowing of cattle
Waiting to be milked.
Along the curvy road,
Scarcely two lanes wide,
A school bus
Makes its cautious way
Between the faded stripes,
Stopping at every driveway
And intersection
To pick up its sleepy passengers.
Before driving away,
The driver waves
To a farmer already well
Into his field
On big tractor wheels
And receives a wave
In return.