The Symphony of SortsI have a symphony, of sortsoutside.My window, openfor the whileof summer,sendsbold sounds of some small childwith brand-newlungsin here.There are birds,as in any song of nature.There are cotton clouds,busyness,intentionup and down the street.I was napping,sinful in my disregardof wakeful living,my boreddisdain.Sun with air cheers the musty corners buttoday,I am sotired.