After The Fourth, Nothing Really Happens. Poem by Ayn Timmerman

Boredom sets in only if you let it,
when you watch a robin trot by
and realize just how dumb a state bird it really is,
but the maples are yellow in the light,
with leaves applauding the cicada's buzzing,
paying homage to another fine day in July.

The breeze sighs in the forest top,
which makes the green ocean wave,
and releases a shower of premature acorns
which are scorned by the squirrels
because they are sour and unripe,
but it is alright with them.

The sky reflects on the lake,
and not only is it up side down, but looks cheesy
with fleecy clouds and a perfect blue tint,
indicating that we needed rain yesterday
which would make the leaves uncurl.
All of this I think about.