Trumpet Morning


It is no cloud surrounding the horizon,
that silhouette revealed now
in the growing light along its range.
Around each peak
the coming sun’s announcement
glows like tongues of cleaving fire.

Canyons exhale
on the last lights of the city
as a thunderhead flotilla
emerges from the west
acquiring the migration trails.
Fig trees shiver along the stream
like trembling cups.

Beneath the aerial schism
the sleeping earth dreams on:
not the dream of storm’s omened contact
at the mountains’ first ridges,
where light flies up in face
of the blackness, climbs wing
upon wing from the dwindling blue
which at the moment before engulfment
sends the only calling ray
to a waiting rose of sharon in the field.

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