The morning was fresh, young, and blooming, across the trees swayed so soft. I heard the cries of a thousand birds, the window besides me shone with sunlight, in front was clouds dark grey and dripping. The auburn, brown, gold, and green leaves were wilting, leaving the bony reaching boughs. Beyond the reds and evergreens, but pines and spines lay down beneath where boar and deer would roam and search. Up high I spotted a sharp winged beast, her song reigning through the vale. Below the hound sat waiting for play, his ball in mouth his tail shot straight, prepared to run and dance. A fowl or two sat by his side, plucking at fallen apples. Besides the stream and fields where three sheep lay still, feasting and grazing, lazily wading, around the soft grass plain. I dared not look down to the south where lay the roads and houses. In winter nights when dimly lights and smoke trails fled up to the skies, I loved the warmth and feel to look, but now it was corruption. I hear a horse in a field nearby, neighing, signing, wailing. The pigs have gone a year or so, their bodies fat and their squeals spent, their flesh and muscle gone to meat. Above their field is the sky, a pale, icy blue. Now clouds are passing, winter arising, storms sufficing, snows depriving warmth from homes and watery icing. Only the warmth on children’s faces as the time of year comes by. In windows gazing, carols a blazing, months too soon and year’s too lasting, the day is passing, month is wasting, dark is early and come on June!