Pure Poetry

Pure Poetry

The day was full of pure poetry. Morning's breath brought whiffs of dry grass and delicate linden. We paused at a field–our feet as well as our voices. We were rewarded for our silence by a cloud of black birds shooting up out of the grass.

"How marvelous", I murmured.

Something about the perfect angle of their flight in juxtaposition with the flat field fascinated me. But as I was contemplating their lifting point, another gift streaked past. A beige blur raced through the grass. If I had blinked, I would have missed the moment. 

"Look!" I shouted to Stacey.

"A hare!" she exclaimed.

He was moving so fast it was hard to gage his gait, but when we focused on his legs it became apparent that he tucked the front set under his body and then closed it in with those in the rear.

I felt awed by this rare scene, but there was another present in store. We continued down the path to a section full of underbrush. As I was soaking in the green around us, a plant caught my attention–not for the plant itself, but for its decoration. Elegant, clear droplets posed on its leaves.

"This is pure poetry," I said, pointing to the dew.

Stacey agreed it was, as well as the hare sighting. 

I tucked these memories in my mind and relived them that night in bed. The feeling of fortune wrapped around me like covers and I smiled in the darkness. Sophie the cat must have felt my gratitude because she hopped on my belly and started purring. Ah, the happy vibrations of a cat: a powerful message. And I thought about how those hums were a type of poetry without words.

Pure Poetry, three times in one day.