The Simple Word Poetry

As the morning sun beat down upon the ground that summer morning, Sally looked out across the grassy yard, set her gaze upon the leafy and colorful bush in front of her and affectionately admired the fluttering wings of the myriad “fairies” that hovered in the air. “I can hear them speak to me.” Sally always had a way of speaking to those with whom she felt a close psychological connection.  It was there since day one, a sort of innate quality that was provided to her through the grace of her creator and the wisdom and randomness of physiology. Today was no different than other days, in that there was always something – a bird, a song, a moment, a friend or a memory – that spoke to her in ways that no one else could possibly contemplate.  Sally, though, had a gift.  She was sweet, kindhearted, precocious, extroverted and curious about the natural world all around her.  She was extremely childlike even beyond what a normal young child would routinely seem to be. “I’ve seen her before.”

A retreat from summer's close morning air, the new day brings a vivid announcement by nature that autumn is peeking its head just above this forenoon horizon. I observe the meandering streams that wind their way through these bayside waterways. Their countenance shrouded in a silken white cloak, like ghosts hovering precipitously over the warm, placid waters. The air is calm, the trees and leaves, or what remains of them, are still as a corpse, allowing this haunting to linger above. This is the time of year where these moments permeate our thoughts of summer's obstinate refusal to release its choking grip without a struggle. In time, the waters will cool and the cloak will lift, if only just temporarily.  For now, though, what do the wading ducks and geese, migrating birds and fish narrowly below the surface make of this spectral phenomenon? Are they scared? Nonplussed? Or just happily oblivious? I believe they are some how comforted in the knowledge that another season of lif