(There was a beautiful storm in D.C. I wrote this in about ten minutes after I woke up the morning after.)

The world is streaming sunlight;
——the birds are chirping high.
The pink of clouds are tinged with blue
——and warm the dainty sky.

The seas, all softly sighing,
——caress the breaking foam,
and dancing leaves bend in the breeze
——to misty beats of home.

The valleys all awaken
——to freshly painted skies.
The grass recalls the friends of yore,
——with dewdrops in their eyes.

The morning stretches softly,
——the forests start to yawn,
the bells of flowers chime for hours,
——singing to the dawn.

The mountains sleep in quiet,
——the wandering winds are moored:
All children of the night that passed,
——when blackened thunder roared.

(c) Isvari Mohan, 2017

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