Those crowded into the brick
And concrete of cities
May never notice the sun
As it sets all orange like
Or see the blue of a new morning
As they rush to work.
The sun in their eyes causes a curse
As they reach for sunglasses
To dim their view of the world.
In the hills, or on any farm
There is seldom a day
That farmers don't stop and look
Up to the sky,
Looking at the world and judging
What will the weather bring.
Seldom does a golden sunset
Escape their weary glance
Or a morning fade to noon
Without an old man
Worn by toiling in the dirt
Stopping to look and say
To himself,
"My oh my, that sure is one pretty day."
