It’s ominously beautiful outside.
The gardens teem with blooms, the air is clear,
the sky’s a bowl of azure high and wide.
The birdsong peals like morning bells, and here
are daily hummingbirds, identified
in thrumming flits. The atmosphere
is mild, but I see the soil’s dried.
I clear and turn the sprinklers on with dread
about the fell aridity ahead.

(Ottava Rima)