Pasture, like water,
changes color with the hours,
the days, the seasons

Fog nestles in, and rises,
dew falls, and sparkles,
wind strokes the shafts of grass with light
under the half sun

Greens and reds from this year’s growth,
purples and silvers from last years,
shimmer in the full sun’s late appearing

No wonder I find myself
soaring. Joy bubbles lift me
(despite ungainly boots)
along the stream of bird song,
pure and high and clear
(sound of wingbeat in my ear)
the seething breathing of everything
filling me up whole.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 25, 2015