Chick, a delightful tune atop a branch sprouting spring’s sepals sets sweven’s scene to counter the obscene of the unpraised—like lazzaroni…winging away worries in a naysaying Naples. ; )

Easterlies, please.

No, not sandwiches comprised of two slices of toasted extratropics surrounding a medium-rare breeze.

I mean *Easter*lies—as in hoppy tchotchkes and bun-tiful baskets of pastel pastilles amid Cadbury candies. ; )

Bush brushes noils’s coils from soaking socks;

Aches burden shoulders via bag of rocks;

Branch snaps crackles’ pops under leafy blocks;

Rustling merits hiker’s amazement gawks;

Mind knows no time of ticking of the clocks;

Hiker rendezvouses with green’s lit knocks. ; )

*Barum-barum-barum…barum-barum*, tumbled kittty’s bum.

“What on earth was that?!?!?”, queried scrunch-faced mum to volcanic tum.

“Insinuation pooh-poohed!”, meowed fur-face ho-hum playing dumb.

“No more mix for you,” sighed pinky. “That garum is *so* not plum.” ; )

Miss Fox, huntress through tough tufts, locks on socks—novelty, knee-high, and cashmere—adorning morning’s madame and, so, now, she, as tufthunter, readies gawks, blocks, and stocks for milady in order to procure padding for self’s walks through each of fields phlox and rocks. ; )