Shards of silver spliced the sky
while my sister went to gather
laundry fluttering on the line
between two swaying Aspens.
But the fierce southeasterly
proved too much
for one of the colossal pair
old and pock-marked, it slowly careened
then toppled the length of the yard.
Sensing the fall, my father screamed
her name into the broken sky
until he found her under the arbour
storm clouds in her eyes.
For many days after I rode my tricycle
round the shaft of that body bruised
a mark of exclamation on
the story writing inward
as my father, with his chainsaw drawn,
cut wood for many winters.
Sunrises with a different color this morning
Pale pink whispy clouds adorn all the upper sky
A very small crescent moon in the southeasterly sky
Where the morning star resides this time of year
The mist rising from the creek Seems to mingle
With the mist from the smaller
Creek one-quarter mile away
Beyond is the pink striated with gray on the low horizon
I heard the gobbling of turkeys
Or is that hunters doing their calls
Do the turkeys know the difference
If they don't their number is up
As the great star comes on up
The light pierces the golden hickory
Radiating the glory from that tree
Into my line of vision just a few minutes
In the front yard the hugh oaks
Lay down a rug decorated with leaves
Varying colors of tan, brown, and red
It is a noisy rug that crunches when touched