I sit on my rock to watch the sunrise
and from the fog-shrouded lake 
an eerie call comes, beautiful and mournful
I sit silent, watching

Midmorning, the sun is hot 
on my back as I drag sticks and prop them 
up on the side of My Rock
to create a den
store my "herbs"

Afternoon, I am still here
gathering leaves stored in day's heat
and stashing them in crevices in My Rock

Late evening approaches fast
I sit on my rock, reading Longfellow
aloud as my rock listens
the smell
of hotdogs grilling wafting from the house
the eerie call cuts through my voice
I look up 
and there is the bird
who has been watching us
since this morning