At the Farm, a poem written by Clare who was supposed to be walking her dog.

At the farm I hear :

Chickens eating breakfast,
A car driving far, far away,
Birds chirping in the many trees of spruce and birch,
A goose, honking its delight to the skies.

At the farm I see :

A goat, walking silently across the pen,
A rabbit, lying ever contented in its hutch,
A chicken, pecking at small grass seedlings and savoring the taste of spring,
An insect, buzzing across the lawn.

At the farm I feel :

A small bug, climbing along my arm,
The cool spring breezes, playfully tugging at my hair.

At the farm.


By Clare A. Howell  (Who is not really in trouble for not walking her dog!)