Early one spring morning, while the lawn was still covered with dew, I awoke from a deep and restful slumber to start the day anew.
Perched on the rooftop, Owens Corning Shingles wait so tall.
Very odd indeed, looking ready and all, almost trying to fall.
Flying out of their bundles, not a turn, not a tumble, each in its place.
On again, on again, vibrations in time, a hypnotic rhythm landing on a dime.
The sound stomach grumbles, the right tune and a rhyme, smile in a hurry no more time again.
Appetite screams, "What Do You Mean?" It's definitely lunchtime, loud tummy in need.
All-Stop! for break-time has come, feed the roofing machine.
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