Begin the day... and I awaken to the gentle tingling,
by Frank James Ryan
Of the morning mists even flow, nights final breath.
And malaised by the gaunt and murky shroud impeding the sunrise;
I intently await the unfurling of natures morning crest.
Enter...an eerie chant of pipes, its echo invokes my intrepid sense;
A sudden, biting thrust of woodwinds approaching with intrusion.
Its sound a whining, writhing pitch as I spin in awkward motion;
To reveal the source and contain my paranoia's quench for peril.
But Woodwinds in the air?
I'm alerted to scriptural warnings
Woodwinds in the air... Read the Book!
I have long lamented through each yellow parched page... Now I pause;
When, my God, I am besieged by a thunderous chorus of woodwinds.
Are they in six or seven? Its numeral symbol represents the entity;
Shall I prepare for strike or implore absolution, when suddenly I...
Ascend my head to the screaming skies, my eyes a affixed in awe;
To a flock of natures feathered flyers, ensconced in melodic exchange.
Juxtaposed in arrowed flank, their conductor at the cusp;
No steeds or trumpets in this group, nor beasts with jagged horns.
Yes, woodwinds in the air indeed, but the message speaks of Genesis;
And I close The Book and embrace the sounds of natures free concert.