A flashflood of morning sun
emptied into the valley
and transformed the hills
from green to the kind of electric
gold only reserved for ancient kings.
Somewhere on a sunbeam
someone tuned a fiddle.
A flowering June breeze
cruised in from the north
pulled into the valley,
parked, unpacked,
and set up camp.
The high and lonesome sound
tumbled downstream.
Bodies and blades of grass
moved in unison
with the June breeze
and the music reverberated
in the air between.
Somewhere on a sunbeam
a memory was composed.