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A Sunday Morning Walk in Fog
Once upon a rhyme, in clandestine fog
At mild morning-time, a silence sublime
So enchants the effervescing ambient air
That every creature I see seems at prayer.
A headstand beetle on the narrow winding path
Puts brow to ground and raises high its rear
As if to say, “I dare you not to linger here.”
Even a motley hare
Bending over the pad of prickly pear
Is rapt and unaware
As if Saint Francis were nearby somewhere.
A tortoise in golden shell sits breathlessly still,
The adoration of his morning watch not in Latin
But in a pristine silence of lauds and matins.
Like a monk’s cell, a golden patterned shell
Seems so rare a place, and so fair a space,
Wherein to sunrise wake and daily dwell.
A flutter of wings causes me to glance up and stare
As a priestly raven, resplendent in black,
Alights with pomp on a pine tree branch,
Bidding me to stay and tarry there.
I wait for a time, as long as I can spare,
And begin once more my solitary way to fare,
But feel a tingling of hair on the back on my neck,
And when I turn round to check, I see with a smile,
An unwary coyote has been watching all the while.
A petite prière d’esprit
by yours truly, HyC
26 November xx23