The wind thinks it's july

Whatever the birds are singing 
May it bless the heart
The morning comes to rest here,
 and so the moon departs 

Morning fog has risen
The sky returns to blue again 
The peaking sun is never troubled, 
She must dry up all the rain,

The pavement leaves shadows now, 
of passersby, and all the leaves are scattered
For the wind thinks it's July

Another day within many seasons, and reasons to feel blessed with light,  for when her time of shinning fades
It's only into night.