Colors of the Morning

One early autumn morning, before the sun awoke, before the moon had disappeared, or any robin spoke. I opened up my window to feel the breezes play and let a breath of beauty in before the hectic day. I gazed across the river, where hills of palest green, like candle-lighted altars, glowed soft in morning's sheen. The crowds of hooded oak trees, a congregation there, drew close their cloaks of shadow and bowed as if in prayer. While gray upon the distance there lay a fragile mist, as wispy as a spider's web, as gentle as a kiss. The colors of the morning, a palette softly spun, would linger but a moment more before the singing sun.