Sitting still, listening to the song of the bird perched on my window sill.
Tweeting of the world, of the wind and dampening rain.
The pain she has leaving her hatchlings, guarding themselves whilst she fetches another of earths younglings.
The worms whisper warmly through the soil, echoing young tales of woe.
Of sisters and brothers lifted t'ward the sky, with no ward or massve horde to rescue the wounded worm.
Whilst the ants hurry orders and walk with a swagger that no man could be taught.
There rigorous army ensemble huridly marching to and fro.
Whilst the bees buzz of honey, and how if they were human they could dine on much money.
But they are quick to reliquish all ideals, when presented with the nectritious scent of sweet, spring honey.
The bunny bounces as if on springs, chomping on carrots or a grass cor don bué.
It sings tales of the Hare, and how it dared, challenge the shelled Shelly the turtoise of Turtoisia to a race of rapid racing, in which the Hare neglects to tell the truth about how he decided to lose, by napping near the finish line outside of the French city called Toulouse.
Shelly stills says silly stuff, about how vixtory is nothing but.
A vague memory.
But should she still recount the tale, she says so without hesitation or fail.
The Eagle flew about the race, did Shelly tell me, it flapped its wings, eyeing all sights, from heights no man could ever be.
Edward the Eagle, of Englwood, would squak the truth to me. "Oh yes," he said, "The hare was as silly as a bunny high on hunny could be", he told me more of the day the tortoise came to be speedy Shelly turtoise of Tortoisa, "Oh yes-sir-ie, that silly bunny let Shelly sneakily stroll swimmingly straight past he, as he napped he dreamt of victory."
Eddy laughed and confirmed, "but victory was not to be."