From muted pink to blue, wings dipping through
Contours and crocuses that the sunrise unveils,
Out of the mountain’s waning mask of shadow, riding
The first tender torrent of
Light above meadows and the murmuring dell,
The lark comes.

His wing
Plants a nascent day, his motion
Is that of the tiller’s plow, we hear
A mellifluous bloom of sprouts of Time.

The head of each sprout is brimming with the potential of our aspirations.

Look! Look! he is climbing the burgeoning blaze
Who knows neither Time nor Error, and under
Whose gaze, undecided, the world, deciding, soars
Into daybreak.

Long now,
The lone lark flutters, the first sparrow
Weaves his sweeping cursive. His grace
Is timeless, too, and sublime. The sun
Shines steadfast, like Plato, over the valley.

Given enough time, we might, we think, hear
The earth erupt into raucous symphony, or memory
Unfurl in brilliance like light through fractured glass.

The yin to this poem’s yang: Evening Hawk