I walked my dog this morning
and it was the perfect time for a walk
(thanks Chrissy).

It was just as the morning sun was
making its face known.
I got to see the gentle morning
cloud that coated my childish
forest hills get burned away;
I got to see the familiar mist
on my nearby lake be born,
I had never seen it start to rise,
but this morning, I watched
it grow.

The white light of the sun was
drowned in the atmosphere
to become a gentle yellow that
shown on the trees,
and everything was breathing,
was aglow, with the multitude
of dew that had gathered from
yesterday's rain showers.

Directly against the yellow air,
blue bark gnarled by time,
green mosses with redheads
sticking out in patches within
patches.

Red cardinals flinging themselves and
thrashers too in their characteristic
Spanish flair. Ravens aplenty,
fishing crows too, their ugly cries
adding to the density of elegant
morning conversations.

Among all of this, one bullfrog called
once during the morning walk. I
took a moment to turn and look towards.

Most of all, there were colorful
southern flowers that rang down
in chains, left right one-two's
that drooped with dew, and they
were drained of their former glory
for Spring has been over.

The walk:
a nice good morning and a
reminder of breath, a way
to clear morning thoughts
and bring a hint of the road.