The sun rises as the day’s ostinato.
The juncos interject
their staccato.
The clouds soar in descant,
whistling from the west.
The fox barks out a tempo,
the squirrel chatters out of time.
Melting snow pings out its melody
along the roof and down the rainspout.
A few lingering dry leaves rustle their counterpoint.
The Christmas rose lifts its face
to greet the strain.
And the river
murmurs.
Each day the song
is the same. Each day
the song is brand new forever.
Glory be to God.
on Psalm 96:1