Pastoral
Winter wheat charms the field, whispering.
A steady farmer turns his back,
tips away from sunlight’s doings awhile,
much does need repair.
With complaint, but willing, still,
exhausted drones turn down their clocks,
hope another hour of daylight can be found
that isn’t stolen from tomorrow.
In his nest, in a tree, out front,
one drowsy squirrel bothers not
to brush bold harvest from his lips,
he curls for warmth
and from the cup of dreams,
sips.
Robert On The Air 