Under its mahogany warmth,
As this summers liquid day,
Only left the leaves to seemingly pray,
Transformed this forest of Springwoods,
With the viridian shields rustling high,
Below its green canopy of filtered strain,
Higher up the sun attempts to shine,
Never is too late on this day which turns gray,
Its tepid air laments away the gray jays,
A vision impressed on this canvas of plein-air,
For one day it'll become the forest of my dreams so fair.
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