Forsythia buds
Reach out, yellow, sleek and small.
Sunday's sun is soft.

Sun touches the trees;
Owl hoots softly far away;
Soft April morning.

Building in the woods,
Hammer sounds and cut wood smell;
Then stillness again.

A warm sunny haze
Casts soft shadows on the ground.
All thoughts disappear.

The yellow dog barks,
Waking from his sunny nap;
Then plops down again.

Stream bubbles softly
A breeze whispers in my ear;
A hidden bird sings.