Trudging uphill and weighted
with remorse when an April wind
rises, wails and bends my body
eastward, and so I put aside my
pack and pause to take in the
windswept world before me
and day’s dalliance with dew,
a dissolving darkness and
the first meager light of morning
gradually glazing the hillsides
and low-lying fields, brightening
with the high-pitched scatter
of birdsong, the drawl of
slow water over stone, and
the shush of high grass in
blurred rustle; soon over-
come by a still-bright moon,
rose-golding, and clouds
in the shape of upturned
earth like those yet-to-flower,
month-away blossoms
and taken by the unexpected
rush of air from my lungs
and an urgent need to do
or say something other than
thank you.
