The wind brushes the needles of the spruce,
the rye grass waves gently toward the sun
setting slowly in the west
The chorus begins
Do they not fear the eternal loss of light?
Or do they know there shall be a morning sun anew
bringing with it the promise of a new day,
in a small cycle of time, the micro within the macro
our lives are like the day,
arise with the morning and drink deeply the aroma of juniper in twilight.
October 20, 2000