Morning wings play with sun’s rays,
dipping wildly over corn fields
and swooshing to the stream
where tails and tongues lap at dawn.
If a moment can be summer
and if a heart can answer to wind,
mine is held captive by small things
like moss on rock and weed behind tree.
Voices of reason do not count
when dew sparkles in morning sun
and it is enough to feel free
without knowing why.