Golden Hills

Driving home

The sun clinging like honey

Syrupy golden

Thick and rich and amber

Crystallizing along the ridges

Of the hills that hug this valley.

 
The trees were spreading their

Winged arms.

Green feathers fluttering

In the wind I was crafting

Whirling past.

 
I want to fly

Turn my face to the sun

And follow it eternally

Westward,

Chasing warmth and light,

Hope and possibility.

 
As fall heralds the end of summer,

Chilling the air,

Changing the leaves on the trees,

Sending the birds south,

I’m wrapping myself in sunshine

Shimmering somehow

Upon the very air.

 
This time of year,

Lighting up dust motes,

The hairy bodies of tiny sluggish bees,

Turning everything into antiques

Gilded with softened edges.

 
Even me.

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