The scene is too beautiful, a Rockwell
straight from "Country Home." Such moments we take
without judgment, and we join the traffic,
moving with a Sunday's benediction.
The ruddy sun, cooling beyond a swath
of shaggy horizon, stretches fingers
into these old hills, humped like the backs
of great drowsing long-gone buffalo.
In this watercolor, snow has sketched log
and trunk and ridgeline, glyphs in black and gray.
Each meadow's a page where deer browse amid
the brushstrokes of our musings.
ruby beads across the hills. We follow,
linking up our little glow. Dark holds off
until our driveway. It seems we have been
gone for years. But one look up at the gables,
the pitch of roof, and we know things - though
a bit worse for wear - are as we left them.
We open the car doors
and the air's kindness surprises.
Around us, spring whispers - soon, soon.