The wind is whispering to the trees
The birds sing their notes to the breeze
The leaves are stained orange,
As the tree’s hat is dead,
And the smell of maple syrup enters my head.

I look all around me,
I look hard for a half spilled canister of syrup from the old maple tree,
But alas, I find none.

I sit there, amazed.
Then another breeze hits my face.
The smell is now gone,
Whisked away by the wind.
The trees again dance,
Then the birds take wing.

The breeze once again stops,
The trees again freeze,
The smell of sweet maple returns,
As though sent by the trees.

Do they taunt me with smell,
Or do they give me a hint?
Are they simply screwing with my head,
And will send next a scent of mint?

Inside my head, I am confused,
But in the end, I don't care,
Because now I am very hungry,
Thanks to that damn syrup scented air.