weaving stories.

the clouds are crumpled above the sky like these papers loitered carelessly on the floor. the sun, as mighty as he always do, streaming his long rays through those that can be reigned by his power. dew drops glimmers with gaiety as they flow down each leaf, tumbling and sliding on the youthful greens and withered ones. cascading down, they will be received by the warmth of the moisten land, down to its abyss, in darkness where they will give health to its roots and life to the earth.
birds are chirping on high and low notes, singing some melody unfamiliar to my ears but otherwise lovely to hear. some are on trees, hopping and walking on the branches. others are on cable wires, looking at posts and wires like some strange trees unfamiliar to their sight. singing altogether as the mild wind swayed and wafted there voices and let the surroundings be filled with it. the bobolinks made a fine morning orchestra.