Climbing the hill
there comes a moment
like stepping through a hatch
into a heated attic.
An invisible parfait this layered air,
bright changes of color
from the cool canyon
flavored by shadow of redwood,
rush of creek, nosing of trout
rising to warmth, drapes of Spanish moss,
struggle of oaks scolded by crows
to sudden heat, scent of sunlight
as deer raise heads, alert.
Oat grass waves, chiming welcome.
First published in Peacock Journal