I have seen the birches
just over the hill, as they
line themselves up to
talk among the copse.
They whisper a song on
the morning, and one
again on the setting of
the sun. A song that we
would do well to learn.
Listen closely and you may
pick up the cadence, strain
to make out the meaning
of their lullaby. The secret
of our own future may be
woven within the words.
Listen. Listen. Listen.
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