Mists

Curving ever slightly, As lines blind brightly, Aspiring and spritely, They come together nightly. These few words, Say it all. The song of the birds, Comes before the fall. As they sing their songs, We all move along, Unto the throngs, Where the heart belongs. Their songs ever radiant, Pierce on a gradient, From the vocal ambient. Whispering on the breeze, The leaves begin to freeze, As the Mist guarantees, The ice is home, atop the trees, Winter is here, geez.