Alpine Song

The shepherd tumbles his ditty
Into wide open arms of air
His oblivious charges gorge on long grass
Bleating in familiar accompaniment

Mid-September Morning

A chill along the fingertips
Between the casings seek a cool air
Permeating cracks and forgotten windows
Thrown open in the blaze of summer
The Indian time has snapped
Frost threatens
Arising, a craving for crimson and ochre
Colors of warmth

Quiver

A long-eared rabbit
Scents the air for joy and love
Quivering with hope