Far Away

From little boxes

Hunter's perch

I sit.

Woken too early

Earth's wet lungs

stir.

All brown and grey

and Evergreem, 

Spring has yet to sprung.

But Bird is out,

Brook is singing,

and the Flowers' children

raise to the greeting 

of the Sun.

Winter has come

And now it is going.

The world wipes its weary eyes,

Ready to start.