This morning,
set the tone:
a freeze
that warmed quickly
and turned everything
from white
to gold.
And now it seems the tone
for this whole day
is muted, soft yellow.
It’s in the rose blossoms,
undamaged by morning’s bite—
still, the prettiest of the year.
It’s in the Hackberry leaves—
yet to let go from dark branches—
stirring in the breeze,
and blanketing the ground below,
where they’re on their way
to feeding the soil.
It’s in the now-and-then gentle tones
ringing in the big windchime
hanging from the thickest Hackberry arm.
It’s in the light—
yellow barely, dimmer sunny than bright.
It’s in the bowls of water
under the tree,
quivering in the air,
mirroring patches of blue sky
and the yellowing leaves above.
I hear the descending high cry
of a Red-Tailed Hawk,
then see its shadow
and finally watch it float,
wings golden in the sun.
Guineas squawk out at the barn,
having made their mid-day rounds.
The chicken flock
is making its rounds,
pecking in grass,
scratching in the fallen yellow leaves,
stopping for water in the bowls.
I just poured wet yellow leaves
from each bowl
and refilled with fresh water.
It’s a small thing,
a routine thing.
But, somehow,
on this mellow day
filling bowls with fresh water
so dogs, birds, guineas, chickens,
maybe a turtle,
can drink
seemed a soft task,
a welcome task,
a gift returned.