Fog and Sunrise

FOG AND SUNRISE

Morning was born in soft layers of mist.
Lush grass lay in lumps, dew kissed.
Trees, like sentinels marching away
in ever softer shades of gray,
were captured by vapor, surrounded.
The sky was clear, the ground, clouded
As I climbed up the hill,
I saw the valley behind me, still.
It lay quiet, the vapor in puddles,
or mounded in creeks like cotton-ball huddles.

At the top of the hill, ahead, high up,
out of the fog like a boiling gold cup,
the sun rose in splendor, an irregular ball.
I watched splashing gold sun-drops splatter and fall.