When dawn comes round  
conversation resumes 
in the treetops.

Locked in dreams we are insects in amber
as surrounding manors declare themselves
before a wing has tried the air.

Long we enjoy a certain latitude.

Who fares ill, who fares well 
-may indifferent masks burn
little chaps with big ideas will tell
who is itching for change and who remains 
stragely cool or blase.

It is safe to assume our conversation resumes 
the minute our eyes open.