No Matter the Season

As evening sun slowly drops behind the hills,

I watch gray heron, sailing

Out from pink and purple clouds

Down to the lake to fish.

 

It isn’t my preference to work,

Rising on draft of wind,

Standing alone on long, bony legs,

Watching quietly so to catch a late supper.

 

Darkness will soon be upon him.

Even his yellow eyes will no longer shine,

But for now, there he is, precisely

The poem I am called to write.

 

I cannot fully describe how lovely

Late August can be,

When the heat of the day is gone

And cool nights already have come.

 

Soon the trees on the hills

Will no longer reflect deepest green,

Preparing themselves to let go,

Touch the solidity of Earth again.

 

Moonlight now offers heaven’s soft light,

Cool breeze washing away the heat.

Approaching change of season

Teaches as good as any book.

 

In this wild, caustic, tender world,

I am silent, hush all questions and easy answers,

Listen simply for the song that echoes,

Whispers over the hills, no matter the season.