Dawn
Two squirrels play a game of catch me in the branches of the maple tree.
Exulting in the suppleness of their bodies,
they leap from branch to branch,
catching the tips of twigs too slender to support squirrel weight.
Slim branches sag under sudden load,
then spring back as squirrel hands release
to catch another twig just as reedy as the first.
The sky brightens, shading from indigo to grey,
through mauve to petal pink, then effervescent golden-bright.
The leaves on the trees glow
emerald and chartreuse, viridian and honey gold,
punctuated by the black and grey of fluid trunk and crisscrossing branch.
Birdsong fills the air, as if they who sing
can hardly contain the aria that spills from them.
And through the cacophony of rustling leaf and dancing squirrel feet,
avians’ exultant call and response, the inhalation of the waking day,
still, there is a quiet in the air, a wholesome silence, a completeness.
As if, in this moment, as all is calm and still and bright,
we are all remade, perfect and unbroken, pure and replete.
And for one precious instant, we are whole.
– D.J. White
