Tingling

The landscape is dusty this morning. I scan the horizon, grey is fading to melon and periwinkle and colors yet to be named. Looking into my mirrors the same is behind me. I seem to be lifting through a hole in the sunrise. The sun shortly reveals the degree to which it was hiding and shadows the rouge and honey waves that lie before me. I pass some large bird of prey. Its feathers fanned out, marking its grave and signaling that its spirit survived the collision. The noble sun chases me and my joints ache so I succumb to the chase while not losing the challenge. Easing the truck into a restful place, I climb down from my perch. My cheeks absorb the cold air as I walk to relieve the tension. On my way, hearing some- thing I've never heard before, I pause, and listen, and turn just in time to see a bronze tree frond fall gently to earth amongst its brothers and sisters. Perhaps the leaves were tingling as well.