The mornings, this morning, the trees wear quiet
like an old coat, soft, worn thin.
The air holds its breath,
waiting to stitch its seams.
No raven’s rasp,
no owl’s midnight wisdom
lingers in shadows.
No quick percussion of the woodpecker
shakes the hollow heart of the pines.
Yet the sun, unbothered,
still spills over hills,
still tips needles in gold.
Wings will kick up dust once more,
stirring the quiet into melody,
a promise unblinking:
nothing ever is truly lost.
The birdsong will return a day soon.
All those aloft know the art of rising
resides in the will of resolve.
