Morning Song

Morning is bright when the quail bobs her head, the leave flame orange
and red, the warm wind runs her hand through my hair, grandfather Sun
tells me tales of my youth, lilac wildflowers flirt vivaciously, an
early blue-tail suns on a rock, the blue sky rolls in hills, a thousand
dew drops hang from pine needles, a migrating goose swims by overhead
as I stroll to meet my lady for coffee.