High above the dappled lake
a sandy bluff begins to wake;
sounds of scurries underfoot
tell of creatures there at work.
Down the darkly wooded slope,
past the ancient pines and oak,
past the white-barked birches grand
I view young linden on the strand.
Water’s edge is a lapping wave
always moving, seeming brave while
creeping, searching, marking the shore;
pushed along by millions more.
Sandpipers there poke and run
in wet sand, below a rising sun;
they look for remnants washed ashore,
or telltale burrows giving more.
A great rosy ball ascends the sky
while gold-tinged clouds attend on high;
streaks of light paint the swells,
flow from where our daystar dwells.
first published in FLOOR OF THE SKY Chapbook
also published in Poetry Atlas
©2013 Bonnie Manion