In Season's Praise

In this place the supernatural emerges
in the deep dark hours of night. But
this is morning and a preternatural
aura still persists, dusk yet hovering
unwilling to welcome dawn with
proper respect. For this is not a day
when the vast dome of the sky appears
blue as the ocean free of waves of
vapour. The forest steams in a summer
of heat and humidity, fat drops of rain
slipping from forest canopy to forest
floor, steeped deep in the excess that
last night's torrents hurled by the wind
drowned the forest in yet failed to lift the
pressure of the firebox it has become
this season. Still, a robin trills then
strings a worm from the vibrating soil
while tiny yellow feathered ovals swoop
among hemlocks and oaks as goldfinches
burst into song in praise of the season.