The Stream's Cloak

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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 life awaits them.
That the rays of summer's sunlight will soon
yield to autumn's array of colors and winter's
chilling grip.

The stillness of the day frozen in time.

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