It is one of those mornings, when
the cool night has mated, with
the moisture laden autumn air.
A southerly breeze pushes, licking
the field heads of dry grain, nudging
a rustling chorus from the stalks.
Fairy wings dance in the light, gems
sparkling in dawn’s first rays, bubbling
effervescent beads on spider webs.
Movement stirs the smell of life, piquant
aspic of the rolling earth’s bosom, inhaled
to nurture the soul and give food to reason.
It is one of those moments unspoken, planted
deep in the bonding fibers of being, defining
from this soil we came and to it we return.
©2011, Donald Harbour