Dawn

at lake's edge, when the world is quiet

Dawn, at lake’s edge, when the world is quiet.

The valley rests in shadow, sky a deep, endless blue.

Deep breaths, shoulders fall. The early birds sing.

And the forest wakes on a yawn and gentle stretch.

There’s a stillness. A hush. Softness clings to the edges.

Dawn, an in between. Not night, yet not day. Fleeting and brief.

To be awake, to witness, what many do not, tucked away in their beds.

Magic.

Dew caught in the dim light. A glittering blanket rests upon green leaves, drops onto white petals, adorns green stalks in fairy lights.

Moments pass. The sun slowly rises. Rises. Rises.

Above the mountain’s peak, it crests.

Beams of golden yellow filter through trees, through leaf and branch. Cascading.

Flower’s edges limned in light. Leaves gilded and glittering.

The forest changes quickly now, from dimness to light.

The meadow sits softly aglow as warmth chases away dawn’s chill.

Dew drops dry as summer’s breeze begins to whisper, setting the grasses to sway and swish.

The ethereal quiet of early morning fades, giving way to daytime’s hum.

See you next time,

♡ Whitney

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