by Eric Pinder
Birdsong punctures
the blindfold of night.
Joyous noise delights
drowsy pioneers who anticipate
but cannot yet see
the new dawn.
A droplet of warmth
dilutes constellations, until
the horizon genuflects just enough
to invite lonely Apollo
to climb.
Conflagration smooths the pinpricked sky.
Despite bright blue, the inextinguishable
constellations hide in plain sight.
Countless globules glisten
on the chlorophyll-green tapestry
of every dewy stem of grass.
In the stillness of each small pond
burns a tiny yellow sun.
Smoky Quartz 