Arrias and His Muse: September Morn
Trees lit by the rising sun,
The sky stark, bright, a golden dawn,
Low clouds shaded in softest pink,
A new day, September morn.
Dew on the grass, a few more yellow leaves,
Into the wood the deer disappear,
But a platoon of squirrels gathering nuts,
They know winter draws near.
A cock crows, heralds the day,
A woodpecker “beats his drum,”
Sunlight warms the forest,
A new day is come.
Copyright 2026 Arrias
www,vicsocotra.com
September 28, 2026
Arrian
