and the roosting birds return
to preen the damp from
weighted wings,
then do I sing my song
of breath and beauty,
swaying with the sight.
Stillness settles
as the sun seeps through
the bending horizon.
The rustle of leaves
hushes like whispers
of healing breath,
my silent song
slides along the
edge of night,
as peace descends.
~Flame RavenHawk
June 14, 2003