I
cannot write this morning
well
enough, though it rises in me—
the
glamorous sun
surrounded
by the red fame of dawn,
the
pasture sending up its fanciest
dragonflies,
electric blues and ecstatic emeralds,
to
stitch the sunrise to the sweltering
afternoon. Before that mid-day heat and noise
erupts,
I recognize the frail song of cardinals.
It
is like cotton candy melting into me,
the
ether of it makes me hungry for more.
Soon,
they
will retreat into shade and into stillness.
Knee-high,
the grass whispers together
and
the moment floods me. From somewhere
a
wind chime dangles notes in the air.
The
pines swing their incense into the breeze
like
a prayer. The risen sun sets the cicadas
to work,
their
melodies like muffled flint striking the day
into
fire.
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