There is a gossamer fragility
to the early morning sun sending tentative
filaments of light through the forest,
emptied of its canopy,
on this late fall day. That old
Master Craftsman has ventured
from his faraway hills to try his
creative hand at sculpting.
Frost delicately etches this landscape.
Priceless crystals rest upon leafage
encrusting the forest floor,
where sun's fingers emblazon them
with an exquisite fire.
Wherever the eye strays,
on bark, a revealed trail, lichen,
fungi or wind-tossed branches;
all carefully limned, white-washed.
Strands of glistening white ice
intertwine robustly as though carelessly
flung over fallen twigs. A magical display
soon to dissolve as the sun gains confidence,
warmth, resolve. Then, crystals disappear
and all remains washed, brightening
faded glory of early fall tinctures.
A raven, silent and wide-winged,
passes above, settles quietly,
crowning the mast of an ancient pine.
Nuthatches call, flitting among
chattering chickadees. Squirrels
begin their quotidian treasure hunt,
foraging, scrabbling, harassing
one another, intent on winter survival.
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