August Parade

I ran this morning,
the long run down to the ranch and back.
As the percussion of foot and breath
found rhythm, I thought of you,
sleeping still.

And I wanted to share with you

the vaporous scent of the cliff rose,
a hint of essence:  like perfume applied
by a woman with restraint,
the scent equivalent of a glance,
fleeting, sweet, muted
by the morning’s cool August air.
Later, the heat of afternoon
will give the scent a sleepy weight,
luring insects to its nectar.

I wanted to point out to you

the inky silhouettes of ponderosa,
black needles and cones defined against
the rosy blue backdrop of the pre-dawn hour.

As I approached the meadow near the ranch,
I noted the varieties of grasses growing tall and wild
along the road, shoots boosted from summer rains,
briefly green.  You, I thought, would prefer the shade
just this side of chartreuse, that side of lime.

But I won’t share any of this with you,

greedy to have these transient August mornings to myself.
Because I know, if you were here,
I would notice none of this, absorbed in words shared,
the daily catalog of chores and events
distracting us from the perceptions of a silent waking mind.
And so, I tiptoed away from the bed, seeking solace and solitude,
solidarity with the birds who serenade me as I pass,
a daybreak parade of one.