The Trees

The pines turn brown, and the needles fall, the scrub jays are nesting, to their loved ones they call. The crisp morning air, the heat of the day, the rustling leaves are deafening, the trees bend and sway. The grass is quite cold, the shade is my shelter, the squirrels are gathering, as the afternoon swelters. The horizon turns pink, it pleases the eye, the sunset is bleeding, into the evening sky. The stars start to show, the moon shines bright, the crickets are chirping, the woods are filled with light. The birds quiet down, and it starts to get cold, and deep inside, the trees chuckle, for their stories go untold.