Already,just this morning
what I’ve seen makes
Cezanne blush,
Monet wish
he was with me,
not stuck in some garden in
Giverny.

Wild white swans
sitting on the bays thin ice
as sun, cloud shrouded,
cracked gray morning into
silver slivers,
now painfull bright,
mixed a glowing flowing gel
at touch point of sea and sky.

Four brown mares,
merging with mist,
emerge from fog hidden grove
beyond the stream,
breathing steam,
manes iced, smoking.

Twenty three Canada Geese,
the flock floating,
gliding,
never a wing moving,
gliding,
slowly,
frozen in air,
gliding
onto a corn stalk stubbled,
snow washed field.

already,
just this morning,
I have seen such,

beauty.