when the sun

when the sun

of golden webs has spun

an infinite highway

tracking through the breeze,

then we know it’s summer.

and the mist shall rise

in grassy tendrils between the trees

while the smoky morning

basks in its newness.

from the tiniest ant

tracking his way across mountains

of rough and tumble leaves

to the shout of a kookaburra,

laughing at his own reflection

in a pool of early-morning dew,

a thousand songs alight the air,

traipsing through the golden web,

and twisting with a natural flair,

into the happy blue

atmosphere.