The field lark chirps it’s sweet refrain.

In mock disdain, it refutes

The urban lute

That claims this is a wasteland.

How dare you judge!

How dast! how dast!

When clover buds hold so fast,

And wild honeysuckle rose

Graciously blooms and pollinates!

Whilst baby trees

Grow wild on the side of the watery ditch.

Turtles sun and restless squirrels 

Twitch their tails and run

And I spin mine,

My tales, that it,

Sitting here.

My brain unfolding antiquities 

In this hidden municipality behind the auditorium.

-jenn