Waking from the inside world,
Or slipping in a dream,
I find myself drawn.
Drawn by waning sunlight’s magic,
Reaching through my window,
I lock my door,
Turn my feet towards the shore.
Purified post-storm skies loom,
Blinding in their white.
The worn trail leads,
Bookended with grass on either side.
The hill crests.
Glory opens all before me.
The front range dazzles in falling light,
Shafts of heaven escaping from steely storm clouds.
Peaks and valleys glimmer in this golden hour.
Succumbing to the beauty laid bare,
I walk nearer the water.
The inviting sounds of lark and sparrow fill my ears, fill my soul.
With each melodious note,
My heart exhales all strain.
The very sound of glad content,
Feathered friends cry aloud in chorus to all this beauty’s Maker.
Turning towards the water’s edge,
A fallen log entices as a resting place.
Reeds line the shore,
Entering the still waters.
Glistening like glass,
Undisturbed and smooth,
The liquid reflects the ebbing sunlight.
The sun slips behind the mountains now,
Turning the water, sky, and eve into purple afterglow.
The last few golden flames,
Reflecting off distant clouds,
Mellow into silver cream, lingering pinky wisps.
The air smells so sweet and full.
Aspens rustle, whisper-like.
The lightest breeze sidles up to me,
Awestruck in this magic.
In this- heaven’s show.