Gray is the sky while the fog is present.
Every second, the stars of twilight disappear.
Orange becomes the East
Slate becomes the West.
Moisture retreats
As beams of gold break through
The horizon.
Flowers awaken
Unfolding their beauty.
Crickets retire their songs of the night.
Overhead, the silent wings of an owl propel it
To its tree hollow
A robin cocks its head to the side
Then abruptly spears the soil.
Revealing an earthworm
Which becomes his prize.
A sheath of a milkweed fell in harvest past
Freeing its seeds.
The silky coma plumes guided the seeds
To their resting place.
After the last frost, they awoke into life.
Their feet dug down and their body stretched up.
Now their newly formed bright green leaves,
They litter the plain
The temperature gains altitude
Like the escalating flight of an eagle
While seeking its breakfast.
A breeze picks up
The loud scent of a hyacinth patch,
Carrying it over the meadow
Of short young grasses
And milkweeds.
The leaves of a cottonwood are also immature youths,
Small,
Glossy,
And green.
They are delicate to the winds of the season.
But the cottonwood itself,
With its rough canyon-like furrows and
Silvered trenches of bark,
Stands old and mature
Having lived many a great time.
For years withstanding
Gusts of fury.
Blossoms of a cherry tree
Are vulnerable to such gales.
Their dainty white petals,
Surrounding little yellow anthers,
Are delicate and fragile.
If left undisturbed, the blooms will be transformed
Into the tart ruby deliciousness.
To be picked, washed, and baked,
The craft of pie making,
Later to be enjoyed
On a summer day
Picnic.
Away fades the aroma of dampness.
The tardy remnants of a nighttime squall.
Its claps of cannon fire are distant,
Deafening the land
Of another region.
Accompanied by the shower
Of Vernal Tears.
A phenomenon of the season,
Soon to return.
This period of time,
In the minutes of the rising sun,
The few months of the passing year,
Rouses fresh beginnings,
Unearthed,
For everything.