In the early morning, the feathery fog
Encircles and encloses my yard
Like a smooth, snug, satin glove;
And dew fair glistens 'cross the sward.

As the sun slowly burns away the mist
The satin seems to turn to lace.
And those lacy cloaks reluctantly rise
Revealing what is taking place.

Sitting statue-like on telephone wire
A sassy Squirrel watches the show:
The pretty pagent of every-day life
Going on down there below.

The pretty pair of mourning doves,
With a dreary, dirge-like drum
Is soulfully singing their sad, sad song
'Bout the cat hid 'neath the Chrysanthemum.

The fearless frisky feline
Is constantly creeping close;
While the jabbering jay with white-striped wings
Is chirping and chattering, always verbose!

Then the quick and quivering squirrel
Is suddenly gone from where he stood.
Turned, he did, on his precarious perch
And scuttled safely to the nearby wood.

With his flight of fear he communicates,
To those below, his fearful scare.
The play is over, the players gone
And suddenly, the stage is bare.