A day framed. A window wide with
hope. Dawn drains in silence. One voice
releases, waiting for return. A vacuum of
Thoughts rise, surfacing with a schedule;
place, time, one door then another. Emotions
become firm and braced. The more the listening,
knowledge enters with a higher plane. The land is
sweet. Each step a gift. Light bends through clouds;
like memories we remember before washed out.
I love open meadows where the wind is the only voice.
Roger Singer 