Lonely are the nuts, warming in the sun, winter coming soon. What jays don’t peck, the cones let fall. Buried then for food, or maybe another tree, with shelter and snow, growing a little humor where I like to go.
Lonely are the nuts, warming in the sun, winter coming soon. What jays don’t peck, the cones let fall. Buried then for food, or maybe another tree, with shelter and snow, growing a little humor where I like to go.
dream ranch 