Nudge of dawn, and they stir
in half-light. Still air hangs
heavy—not a bird, not a trill.
Eager, the sun pulses
under the skyline—
flickering then flushing
pink-gold before breaching
the horizon, now bursting
through, firing up orange
to stash cumulus behind blue
as the pines stake themselves
into place—bark-cased statues
carved out vertical,
their plumage fanned to points.
Prickly tufts eye and yield
as cerulean swells to a bulge
netting hot on heat.
The firmament balloons
to capacity. Mississippi red
clay underneath, loblolly pine
breathe in and hunker
down to outlast
summer’s closing
heave.
