by Jason Motsch
The meadow is deceptively quiet.
Birds, snapping twigs, frogs, insects: none are present.
The flowers seem to wait with expectant vigil.
Then, at first strike of sunlit dawn,
the flowers begin to sway with an invisible wind.
The swirling stem work holds up a quilt of
Undulating blossoms to the morning sky,
greeting the arrival of day.
Nobody ever sees this in the forgotten meadow.
Daisies cry out and jump from their roots,
spinning like delicate toy tops for invisible children.
Buttercups and phlox make love in a beautiful embrace.
Daffodils and wildflowers sever themselves from their tethered place
and begin to dance wildly around the glade.
It is short announcement to the forest that it is morning,
nothing more, nothing less, but
everything beautiful and sublime.
Soon the dance dies down and a mist gathers slowly in the
clearing until all is obscured.
Eventually the fog clears and the meadow is as it was,
appearing untouched and virgin.
Like it is every
morning after the dance.