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Forest

There's a nightingale singing her flat baritone,
Pirouetting, then, with her voice, to a shrill, quick-paced tune,
Perched on an oak, the nightingale supervises
The acorns' ripening, quite solemnly- as solemn as the oak.
The harps from the abode of the Bard 'crease-fold-open'',
Everything around the 'twittering' nightingale,
Fades away , then blooms, ablaze,
In tandem with the nightingale
As she 'orchestrates', 'Castafiorates' and lowers her chords.


The leopard's spots are the chapeau to his smooth and silky camouflages,
They so beguilingly make him a common, formidable beast,
Where the lion appears straightforward, he is pretty much that,
While the leopard's spots are show and red-herring.


The timeless tales of the vertebrate-bear,
Can never out-do our auditory zeal,
We listen to folklore, ode, and songs, and medleys,
Rested under the fluttery shade of a banyan tree,.
The eaves are green, but we shouldn't mind,
As with the forest around,  the odds are always with us.

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