Postcard #4 - A Summer Dawn

By parts, a silver dawn on the horizon slips between the folds of night’s dark sheet. Joining the stars by criss-crosses of bursting daylight, like a shiny fat woman filling up her black dress to the seams.

The meadow from where I stand to the foot of the grassy knoll beyond which the sky rises turns from black to dewy green. Shapes are now discernible. The little farm dots are waking up. The wind zips over and around the mustard stalks below. The mustard flowers are dizzy with all the twirling, as if she had put a blanket around them and given them a good exuberant spin and then run away, leaving them reeling behind, a kind of a gypsy dance.

Breathe in the summer dawn. It is not hot. The zippy air of the yellow mustard flowers skims down to your depths. One smiles. She is so happy. The wind I mean.