Just before the dying of dawn
Tranquil songs of beguiling birds will imbue the air
And the rise of the soulful sun will paint the eastern sky orange.
The beads of dew on grass will forget to roll down the blades
Thus their fractured glitter will leave a sour taste in your mouth
Almost reflecting back the splendour of the mourning morning
While the air, hazy and almost tangible, will massage your skin into passing numbness.
And trees will bow in angst
In respect of the buoyant wind
In an appreciative gesture
For a morning so divine
Yet destined for imminent departure.