The morning sun has broken through the trees.
Its yellow light is dancing on the tent.
The fly is flapping gently in the breeze.

Some droplets rolling down — oh, did it freeze?
The night is gone; I know not where it went,
but morning sun has broken through the trees.

My sleeping bag stayed ninety-eight degrees.
The earth and trees are still, and stand content,
only the fly flaps gently in the breeze.

I must get up; I have a day to seize,
but sleeping bag and chill have got me pent,
though morning sun has broken through the trees.

I force myself up onto hands and knees.
some birds are chirping, but the beasts seem spent —
hush, but the flapping gently on the breeze.

That stillness and sunshine put me at ease —
no time to mourn or sing the night’s lament.
The morning sun has broken through the trees;
my tent is flapping gently in the breeze.