Rain in the Trees

It patter taps on straw,

soft and low

and muffled like the bird.

But when I try and tiptoe past

the watchful trees still hear

and see.

The sentinels gaze down.

Wise and wake

they solemn, rise and shake

above my head their sprinkle spread:

drips of crystal drops

for free.

The woods and I agree.

Wise and low

amid the matted straw,

I sense a welcome stranger near—

who stands and sees and here

with me

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