Sunlight pierces the fog at 11 a.m.,
and patches of blue sky appear
above the brittle bare-branched trees -
an interruption midst
the relentless gray of December
in this mountain-encircled valley.
A heron graks,
then lifts off
the topmost branch
of Grandmother Cedar.
I watch his huge wings
rise and fall, rise and fall,
as I head toward the house,
(smoke spiraling from the chimney),
with another armload of wood
for the fire.
I wrap amber sunlight and trees
around me like a prayer shawl,
as I enter,
and count my beads
For Kim's prompt at Verse First: Gifts and Blessings