Summer. Days of long hot sun,
the wind scorching exposed skin
and throwing sand and twigs everywhere.
Summer. Early mornings when the sun
first reaches above the pine tree tops
and the light squirms its way through
openings in the pole barn roof, tapping
on closed eyes. Slowly the whippoorwill
across the seasonal creek is heard and
the acorns hitting roof every time
the wind arrives.
Summer. Afternoon storms that build
and tower above the flight paths
of airplanes, the silent clouds
with layers of colors, various shapes,
and ever-changing patterns.
Before the storms arrive as the sky darkens,
I am serenaded by the whispering pine
and the silent awakening of not being alone,
of having a connection with the earth
and to each tree providing shelter.
Winter is finally put to rest, for now,
as the sky turns black
and the forest bends
in the hour filled
with frequent strikes
and increasing intensity,
the dry earth quick
to give up secrets,
quick to burn
before the rain arrives.