Quiet morning.
Frost layered on the ground,
cool air brushing bare skin.
Soft gold spills over the branches,
no wind—
only the deep stillness
of a white veil
drawn across the earth.
Above it all,
an unbroken blue of sky.
Frost holds the meadow
in a silver hush,
blades of grass
hardened into glass
by the first thin light.
Soft morning pours itself
over hollow and rise,
spilling warmth in silence
along the furrowed ground,
where long streaks of sunlight
stripe the open field
like slow, golden rivers
unfolding toward the day.
At the edge of vision
the autumn forest gathers,
breathing out orange sighs
and tender pastel embers,
leaves lifting and drifting
against the chill air,
small fires of color
burning quiet and low.
Far above the stillness,
where sound thins into memory,
migrating birds cross the pale sky
in a dark, moving script,
tracing the turning season
over the frost-bound earth
and carrying morning forward
on the strength of their unseen song.
