I’ve driven down this road
hundreds of times,
never seeing the stream
arching through tall grass.
Today I walk.
I startle mourning doves
from their hiding places.
Turning my face toward the field
I see mallards make slow spirals
through sunlight and white clouds
painted on wrinkled water,
a gift from my feet to my eyes.
By Wilda Morris
Visit Wilda’s blog at http://wildamorris.blogspot.com/