A Mountain August

A poem

I live for that first morning

Of every year

When the sun rises

in a silent, silver glow.

When the crickets sing

On shimmering wheatgrass,

And the corvids call

For the changing of the leaves

As the squirrels rush here or there

along the branches

Fighting for their winter stocks.

That first morning

When the sun brings her warmth

Instead of heat;

When the mist lingers in the fields

And the rivers run with a humble calm;

When the first golden leaf falls by the window

And the warm mug in your hands

Means just a little bit more.