The sun hits
The tree tops
Like foamy crests
On ocean waves
All white and
Rolling as the
Sun moves higher
Into the sky
Tree trunks lean
Like firewood against
Each other and
Oh the smell
Of earth bathes
My nostrils there
A damp coolness
Like a refrigerator
Door opening in
July on the
Forest floor as
Dew streaks all
The car windows
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 