What is in the eye of the beholder, is it true beauty. What is acceptably pleasing to the senses? Who can define what is pleasant to look at or to be around. Does one sense define beauty over the other. If something is pleasing to see but contains filth, then is it truly beautiful? How can true beauty be defined by the mortal when each of us views a thing differently. So can anyone of truly say what beauty is?

Early morning fog off the river,
crawling, spreading like smokey fingers
caressing the low rolling flanks
of the predawn valley floor,
No breeze to disturb the stillness that pervades,

The silence nearly complete,
but for the last faint voices of night
birds before sleep requires they cease,
Answered by the cooing calls of a
morning dove, seeking out it's mate.
One shrill voiced Whippoorwill competes.

The heavenly songs of flocks of geese,
high above on the wing,
moving in precise migration formation,
across the grey-blue sky.  

East across the valley,
in majestic back lighted,
rising sun silhouette,
the purple hued mountains
stand as a lofty shield,
stealing and preventing
rain to fall on the eastern desert.

This morning sight of rebirth and renewal
is never tiring for my sleepy eyes to view.
To rise so early, ah now, that is the challenge.