As the sun dipped behind the tops of the pines to her west,
the meadow felt the warmth of its powdery golden light,
pollen and seeds floating in the glow of it. From her grasses
the song of the crickets rose, floating across the whole of her,
down to the lake and to the forest at her edge. So soothing
was the song, that for a long, soft moment the meadow drifted
into a dream about all the flowers and birds, the butterflies
and spiders who had danced for her since spring.
Soon the last of them would be gone. And with that thought,
she woke from her reverie, glad to see asters swaying
in the early evening light, because you never know,
she reasoned, when a migrating hummingbird might stop by.