Sunrise, late September

The rosy underbelly of the clouds

descends in a watercolor wash upon the hills

sending pink light into the fields.

Here is the sweet spot.

Here time, in all its translucence,

turns the present into memory and vision,

each palpable and almost visible.

Here, the imperceptible floats in the breeze

just beyond your reach.

In late September when colors run at dawn,

you hold what has been and what will be

upon your outstretched palm.

And there, with wings spun silver,

they quiver and take flight.