A Fist of Leaves

A fist of leaves

For is not time dawn itself?

Having shaken the stars from a now empty sky, she now races to catch the night before the call of day, dancing, skipping, gathering the shadows fleeing before her catch, her catch gathered in a bag, in fists of leaves and abandoned trees, the rooftops reflect and mirror the first touch of sunlight, the slow rise of breakfast fires, the first call and echo of the last of black and birds, singing loud and brightly, the night reclining to a lulling sleep, 

Dawn dances to the last, a flood of gold, red and passing, a mourning empty of cloud, clutching her bag of stars and shadows, she lifts the lid of morning, and slides beneath the rising light of day, to other side of dreams, life and the twilight hush of dark before a smiling, familiar moon.

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