Upon the wooded hill
The
forest sentinel stood
Made
from wind falls
Wooden
scraps and ullage
Skilfully
fashioned
To
become, complete with binoculars
The
birdwatcher
But
all was not as it seemed
For
the sentinel
Destined
to forever study
What
fell before his gaze
Every
autumn
Turned
his attention upon
His
favorite birch tree
Who
when the autumn wind blew
Began
to shed her leafy canopy
All
the year round he studied
In
detail her fully covered form
But
in the autumn, he could
Revel
in her nakedness
The
sentinel spoke to himself
“Oh,
I’m getting a woody”
And
with that his sap began to rise
“Oh
no too soon, too soon”
Then
all too suddenly it was over
So,
upon the wooded hill
The
frustrated forest sentinel stood
Staring
through his binoculars
And
telling himself
“There’s
always next year”
