Flowers from the seed they grow and witness the sun and the silver moon,cows eat grass and listen to the motorways humming tune, music plays in a field by the month of June, dogs walking there owners, twelve in a park early morning, dew glistening off of the ground,life in Technicolor like a French cartoon, not a sound but the birds tweeting to there world all around, a bath runs and in it somebody soaks there weary limbs, a CD out of a few hundred hand selected to depict what a man is feeling at this moment in his vast life, a mother awakes and the sizzle of the frying pan is conjoined with the world around her.. and the birds keep tweeting... the ebb and flow, ripples on a lake at the back of the house of which lays in the black and white park, an immortal film opens with this view, a film made to leave a legacy of this one mans life, and on this morn all is well, for a hard nights work has been completed, mind shot and depleted a weariness has unnerved his senses and only when on the cusp of completion is the realization that he his worth more than he thought, looking back through his life on such a delicate dawn, a yawn is smiled at in the knowledge that a bed awakes and things will be better as they now are, and the birds keep on tweeting.
