Predawn

Poetry

The indulgence of predawn solitude:
The wind rushing through dancing trees.
The caress of crisp-cool breezes
So delicious and sweet on my skin.
Shadows and hues of plums and midnight-blues
Give way to silver-tinged clouds and slow-warming gold.
A galaxy of ripples electrify the water’s surface –
A landscape alive and ever-evolving,
Painted by the wind.
It tickles and teases in gentle wisps
While gusting in symphony throughout the trees
And in waves of light upon the water.
See how the world awakens,
Responding to the rousing wind –
Conjured in the pull;
The ancient call.

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