Summer Morning

They sing at dawn on the alder boughs,
when sunrise tints the hills in pale tangerine,
and wheat fields ruffle like rich silk in the breeze.
Here, beneath the tree crowned cliffs,
bells of passing sheep tinkle with each woodnote--
moving all nature to kindness and mirth.
Then, as if by special grace,
the morning sun dips a little lower--
just to hear the bells and trills
rising on melodious wings.