olive green and rust brown mix
light streams through the leaves and catches motes betwixt
lines of sun, and displays them against the bark
rough and diamond-shaped of the forest, and the song of a lark
is quiet and warbling, like the sound of the creek
and beyond the close-clustered trees is a mountain's peak
the breeze of spring morning rests on the leaves
and dances in the grove of the sycamore trees.
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