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Feathered Leaves

by Susan Irene Fox

Dear Heavenly Father,

You delight me in the early morning as I stare at barren trees.

The dead leaves barely hanging onto

wintry, sleeping branches

suddenly come alive

at the noise of the garbage trucks arriving.

Not dead leaves at all,

but resting birds,

warming themselves in your rising sun,

watching the mountain turn

from black to purple to pink,

defined in its own shadows.

copyright 2014  Susan Irene Fox

copyright 2014
Susan Irene Fox

The birds shoot away like arrows from the noise

that has disrupted their sweet repose.

In the silence that follows

the leavetaking of the lumbering trucks,

one by one the feathered leaves return

to take their places,

filling the tree again

in the amber dawn.

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for allowing me to rejoice in this new day you have made.