Trumpet Morning It is no cloud surrounding the horizon, that silhouette revealed now in the growing light along its range. Around each peak the coming sun’s announcement glows like tongues of cleaving fire. Canyons exhale on the last lights of the city as a thunderhead flotilla emerges from the west acquiring the migration trails. Fig trees shiver along the stream like a weave of trembling chalices. Beneath the aerial schism the sleeping earth dreams on: not the dream of storm’s omened contact at the mountains’ first ridges, where light flies up in face of the blackness, climbs wing upon wing from the dwindling blue which at the moment before engulfment sends the only calling ray to a waiting rose of sharon in the field.
A former Pastor’s Assistant, David W. Parsley is an engineer/manager at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory where he works during the day (okay, and some nights and weekends) on interplanetary probes and rovers. His poems appear in London Grip, Poetry LA, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Autumn Sky Poetry, and other journals and anthologies. “Kyoto: A Cycle” was a semi-finalist for the Able Muse Award.