If photography was my job
I’d have stopped at the hill’s crest
Overlooking rolling valley fields
I’d have carefully crafted a shot
Of streaming sunbeams piercing
Sundry shades of gray white lace
Instead I drove down the hill
Staring at each beam’s stream
Burning the image into my brain
Commemorating the dance of
Glowing light funnels shooting the
Gap in the clouds leaking golden streaks
