Early fawn

Morning. The green still silent on the leaves.
More than quiet this is the reason for quiet.

Something soft-spoken whistles through the trees.
Probably summer on the prowl
or anything else that is bound to happen.

I'm dressing slowly, unsure of the light,
of the story yet to come. Even though
old legends never stop telling their tales. Like people

they're always in need of what once was theirs.
And then she's there, some kind of urgent
blessing on her lips. And I can only grasp
at what reluctantly trails behind.