Some sparrows
are singing
among the sheer

curtains of fog
at the edge
of daylight.

Damp grasses
smell of wild onion
and heavy dew-drift.

The horse listens, too,
and, I suppose,
marvels more

than I that the heavy
air does not stifle
their song.

Feeder fish swim
along the edge
of the pond—

creamsicle echoes
of the dawn sky,
now clear.

I watch for a doe
and her two spotted
fawns to appear,

but today, only
the babes approach
to nibble sweet clover

then disappear
as all creatures
of the earth do,

leaving me
behind the glass,
outside nature again.