As if the rustle could exist,
without caress from the wind,
After sun drying sheets
Of the trunk spurted bristle.
- Now of sundry pieces;
In wait for the crunch.

Do you not see,
this orchastrated play
Of natural music?
A compose of the Rab.

When the skies' over-worked
They sweat. Does the tip, tapping
Of drip, not tingle tantalising sing
To splashing boyant spring
In puddles ringing undisturbed?
A win to the...