... and the morning came
in a thunder of birds
a fan of feathers
on the green of the mountain

the spear of the Young Son
darting through the vermilion
the cerulean -- the speckle
of a salmon's belly

and the morning came
and the bright-faced Day
combed her shining hair
on the silk of the river

and the naked boughs
of my bleak winter
edged into leaf
into spring they edged

with a thunder of birds
the morning came
a chorus of trumpets
from flowers unseen

and on the river
my hope's light gleamed
and reckless dreams wavered
in the glory of peace