Perhaps it's the boy, in this old man,
That plays in dirt when ever he can.
By playing, I mean, out in the yard,
Where a love of gardening, is not hard,
But a desire to see plants to keep growing.
No matter the fact that it soon will be snowing,
I found that I do not like a Fall chore
Of raking leaves, waiting, then raking some more.

Serpent like, it too to the sky,
spreading it's wings, it began to fly.
Swoops and dips, with a loop or two,
It would fly by and spray the dew.
The air from it's massive wings,
Made my heart happy; funny things,
From legends of the past, long ago,
When it flew, it put on a show.
Alas all the people that we know,
Saw it disappear, as away it flew.
Will it return? That's hard to say,
For if children wish hard
Who is to say.

Let us fly on gossamer wings,
Into the air that Nature brings.
Lift up into the beautiful sky,
Flapping our wings, as we try
To soar for hours each day,
Seeing the flowers colorful array.

Many, many years ago
to Chatsworth, California I did go.
It was raining hard.
The streets were wet.
I wondered where the water went
for there were no gutters
or storm drains for the rain to take,
so water ran mostly at random
down the street with sheer abandum.