The sun leaves its slumber behind the hill
and begins its grazing
in the meadow of morning
guilding the moisted lawn in its generosity.
Moorhen chicks play
as the spirit of the lake
raises its misty blanket
and drinks in the day.
The trees are quiet in their waking
and do not trouble the sky
with their whispers.
A coven of crows, winged black monks,
injure the ambience
with their cursing unenchantments
but the spell remains unbroken.
A way away
farmers begin their husbandry,
courting affianced in wifely fields.
It’s Sunday, worship begins.