Late Spring’s tributaries are muddy encasements
joining into a larger stream,
following its source
the forest song
murky stream murmuring
the sharp whistle of wood thrush
diaphanous light filtering into the canopy
lime-yellow shining!
I am listening to the forest song
and all that it tells me is ancient and perduring.
Kneeling on the rusty yellow Winter mosses
shielding new red sprouts and tendrils;
lone hanging oak limb
pale buds silhouette the setting sun,
mist on steely grey Glendale.
The song of ripples and wavelets
soothes me in rhythmic caresses.
Giving praise to God in all things,
worshipping the beauty of the Lord
in this Springtime kingdom;
shining and opening before me
envelops my musing
gives me a sweet new song.
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