At Dawn
It's such a busy season! Not enough hours in the day! So rather than writing something new here, I'm going to paste a poem I wrote before I moved to Iowa City. I was living on the family farm, growing medicinal herbs for the farmers market, and enjoying country life. I remember the morning I wrote this poem, and reading it again brings all those memories back. At Dawn Pulled from bed by the sound of waving treetops, I make my way down the long staircase, across the study, and out into the dawn, moving from stillness to an outside world electric with movement. I sit on the top step of the south porch, letting the cool moist air wash over me. A regiment of clouds approaches from the west, full of the promise of something significant, a mixture of blacks and grays, morphing into rounded shapes, and then stretching thin and long as the wind carries them on. Wrapped in the stillness of an observer, I watch small birds soar high above the trees and then swoop down, moved to ecstat