A bird is singing,

I hear it,  from some far away place so intriguing.

As I slumber in my morning bed,

Deep within myself,  a bird is singing.

As I awaken, I find it is not a dream.

Finally it had happened summer is here.

The song of the birds are cheery and bright,  on warm summer mornings such as this.

My ancestors bowed to great morning sun,  in the courtesy of its great need.

So the bird outside my window greats her eminence with song indeed.

My own song is that summer is here and I  can walk and enjoy it’s full glory…

C. Burgess (c)