Sunday Stillness

Surreal, spectacular Sunday —

mist braiding itself through the trees

as we followed the trail to the river.

The dogs moved ahead,

guardians of the quiet,

while dew slipped from the leaves

in silver punctuation.

It felt as though Ansel Adams

walked beside us,

framing shadow and light

in the hush of fog.

A spiderweb, bejeweled in morning diamonds,

held the dawn between its threads

as we descended to the boat launch

where river and sky

rested in one seamless breath.

Nothing hurried.

Nothing asked.

Only stillness —

wide and holy —

settling softly within us.

Beth Brubaker