Bliss

Anytime the crows are singing,

The fields are full and barely clinging

To their ripened form.

'Tis when breath is full of flavor

Of all that's good to seek and savor

When the season's warm.

When spirit's at a higher station

Held there by shared expectation

Of the joyful throng

That sings a bold and gleeful chorus

No more able to see what's before us

Than a crow can sing a song.