A winter cold front roars across the hilltop,

meeting the western sunset as it cast shadows,

 signaling twilight above the settled land.

Trees tipped with fire from the sun,

 display the colors of their season past.

Ages have passed across these golden fields,

 as the soybean stands tall in the sunset glow.

The dirt below holds the spirit of the harvest,

which rises to the sunlight,

absorbing the power of the rays.

Life is given to the seeds through the years,

supported by this ancient soil.

History resides in this soil,

 which has seen the plow for decades.

Feeling the full brunt of the season,

 the seeds hold tight to the stalk,

 until harvest sets their spirit free.

Sitting quietly on the edge of this field,

my heart beholds this wondrous moment.

I once again have come to admire,

the power and brilliance of nature’s spirit,

renewed by the soil upon which I tread.

The lush tones of the fall shades,

sparkle in the dim light of sunset.

No time are they more intense,

than when the spotlight of evening is cast upon them.

This view from my blind overtakes the reason for being here.

Maybe deep down this is the true purpose.

Once again, as seasons change,

I am back as if I never left this exact moment. 

The excitement is not in the sight of game but to just be.

The half-moon hangs close to the treetops,

waiting its turn to rule the evening.

As the curtain of color dims before the evening hours,

shadows cross like a sundial across the golden fields,

day becomes night and I am blessed with a front row seat.   

I look and listen and wait for the gift of darkness to own the day.

I am set adrift into the sunset of this place,

enjoying the essence of nature’s gift.

If no game appears so be it,

the gift is in the moment and the reason that I return……again.

I stood in a solitary place for what seemed a lifetime,

but only for a few moments.

I witnessed a most spectacular event,

the coming of the dawn.

At that exact moment,

the sun broke the horizon and lifted to the heavens,

appearing from behind a shroud of trees.

I attempted to time the event,

but it seemed pointless in the sight of such beauty.

A fireball of light with such strength,

I reluctantly had to shield my eyes.

With one continuous push this miracle of our existence,

once again gave us a new day.

I was humbled by the sight but energized,

thankful I lived this exact moment in time.

If one does not take the time to recognize the gift of a new day,

then they indeed miss the true meaning of being alive.

Rain clouds rolled in before the dawn,

a southwestern front covered the morning like a blanket.

The woodland creatures were singing in perfect harmony,

tree frogs carried the baritone section and crickets harmonizing along.

Cardinals provided the melodic high notes along with others,

too numerous to mention, a perfect dawn chorus.

The wood line presents a kaleidoscope of fall hues,

a pallet of color painting a portrait of fall.

Pure moments of splendor and beauty,

are a small price to rise early.

The silent running tide moved slowly up the branch,

a stoic heron and a wandering egret wait patiently for their evening tidal meal.

The soft razing foam on the edges of waves outline the shoreline,

creeping and swallowing the land which it covered just hours before.

 A steady accordion of rippling waves crest,

giving direction ahead of the gentle wind.

This scene through a screen porch at dusk,

provides a pixelated view of a waning day,

full of memory and gratitude.

The reeds and the cattails pay homage to the scene,

bowing softly in the wind.

The movement of the tide is etched in ancient rhythm,

leaving and returning,

giving balance and harmony as true as time itself.

Let your life flow in parallel with the running tide,

pay homage to the strength and consistent pattern of our tidal existence.

We too move back and forth with consistent determination,

bringing nourishment and rebirth to our lives each day.

Wonder in the power and live the gift of God’s own hand,

giving eternal thanks for the adventure we are given.

Hours ahead of sunrise,

the woods are dark and have swallowed the night hours,

holding them captive until dawn provides the edge of light.

High above, strong northwest winds glide across the bright lunar shadow,

brilliance from above, chill from below.

Smoke from fallen ash and oaks brings fall fragrances to the senses,

plumes rise in homage of polar temperatures,

descending upon the wintery landscape.

An evening snow has blanketed white crystalline fields,

leaving snow-tipped cedars with confectionary perfection.

Sitting as a willing participant to nature’s gift,

I tune my senses to know there is a presence among us,  

blessing us with this view.

A serene presence so strong,

transforming the wind and the seasons,

providing magical inspiration.