On days when the shivering chill water;
seen though sap wet spines; glints silver
and puddles out as cascading pennies
at each scudding bounce of flat stone.
When barely whispered clouds hang
peeking from the moor heads, not daring
bleach the sky. And, pert leaves no longer
than a mayfly's wing have left the tree
as yet unformed to mar the view in shadow
in their drooping; open fullness.
In that moment, of breathless new heated air
- perhaps - it is what we feel.
