A quarter moon hangs high
in an infinite sky infinitely blue
except for the slight hue of rose
rising at the rim of the ridge
that runs mostly east along the creek.
A narrow band of bottom land
spans the few miles from here to the river.
The distant shapes of cottonwood and sycamore
raise black branches above the base
of other trees.
They stand stark against the morning,
leafless and bare in the clear frozen air.
Above and across the entire span
of all the land a man can view from one place,
not a single cloud can be seen;
the sky is as clean and clear
as mountain air on a northern slope.
We live in hope of days like this:
endless, vast as dreams and strong as love,
shielded from every evil wind
and spending this one still moment
in deliberate consciousness.
There is precious promise
in days begun in silent praise
of what is good, pure, lovely, honest and excellent.
No matter what endings they hold,
is worthy of gratitude,
worthy of adoration.