At this hour All the birds should be singing the little ones that shimmer the rush of leaves as they to and fro the black and yellow that hop their destination, squawking a cacophony of crows - What about the sun making his wingless soar across the sky sets the tongues wagging? In the trees it is a beaked babel in this morning rush to divulge the dreams of last night and the hopes for today. - me, a long time ago