Her Old Scribe

At times I sit beneath the trees With pen and paper on my knees I search for something new not old I search for story never told Above my head the squirrels leap And at my feet do critters creep I listen for the coming sound Of story wanting to be found The leaves they dance and then they rest The sun moves too, towards the west Suns will set and birds will flock As days pass the months do clock I wait to see if the letters form A destined tale or one of storm So, let the words ring ever true And sound a fairytale for you.