Rise to the morn in my hollow I will
Awake and awash my face from all sleep
When sunrise tops the ridge o’er East Hill
Hear the gentle sound of a frog’s first peep

Casually I make some thoughts for the day
Chore list as long as a shadow in spring
Feeding cows in barn a few bales of hay
Ride to the woods and hear early birds sing

Not just late winter does mud season start
Buckets they hang from a tree by a tap
Sugaring begins first full moon in March
Drip drip they fill with a maple’s sweet sap

The smoke will rise from the hot boiling pan
Maple syrup will be flowing again