Sunday Morning Sunrise
Slowly the sun chases away the moon.
It is a sliver on the horizon like a loon
With its wings extended, floating
On the edge of the lake beneath its wings.
It's Sunday morning as I run past
The harbor. Ghosts of the last
Season of sailing are the only thing
That I see as I scan the lake's placid covering.
As I continue my run up the hill
Away from the lake I know I will
Remember the scene, the ghosts of past
Seasons of sailing, as the Winter breathes its last.
From "The Kingdom of Music" James Henderson, 2013