Times of transition
appeal to my sense of

In joyful morning
eastern gold flows
over our highest leaves.

The blue-jays shriek
as our cat prowls
the wet grass.

She does not care

that this is the edge of time.

But I can feel the sun’s fire
as I work in the yard

and hear the mockingbird
in our highest eves
calling to his love
in the cherry tree!

Soon the wind
again will rise
and another summer day
will coldly decline

as the western fires
to bluest steel, to
blackest silk.



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