Beneath the old oak trees.
They rest in quiet on the grass
While cooled by soft spring breeze.
A chirp, a bark, a whispered yowl;
Songs dance in morning air,
And soon the furry dance begins
With bows of practiced flair.
A symphony of voices raised,
The dancers turn and gyre
Until, at dusk, the sky turns pink
And the furrys start to tire.
The music stops, good-byes are said,
The stars come out and shine.
This place lies quiet once again,
This glade of oak and pine.
And though the dancers now are gone
They'll come again to Shadowlawn.