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.
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