Out of summer dawn breaks the hungry song,
of wide-mouthed swallows; mothers soar along.
Fly with hapless moths in tow, swift make haste
to brushwood nests, which stretch so wide, so long.
Nearer to me still, nearer to this shore
on black misty pond, silent dance this corp;
this sum of insects-quick their dizzy dance-
in rhythm though, as if they dance a score.
The grey mist drifts, it lifts and gently sways
to the darkened tree-line brief there it stays.
Glances past the leaves damp with morning dew,
hastened by the breeze carried past my gaze.
Glorious morning theatre aura spell
cast upon the pond-cast upon the dell.
Opus then painting-painting to a tale,
nature’s soul splendor, of this I do tell.