Walking into the room there is a soft light,
Enough to illuminate the pages,
But not enough to strain the eyes.
As the class starts
The normal voices drop to a
Low, soothing, whisper
Some heads bent, some scan the room
Searching for a muse.
Blinds over the window are always up,
Allowing a person to see clearly
The empty field resting up under the sun.
The leaves morph from a deep forest green,
To fiery red and a sunflower yellow.
The sounds in the room are clear,
The scratching of pens and pencils on paper fill the air.
Most of the spoken words by now are
Soft but
Carry a weight greater than their speaker.