Rush River Valley

Just before sunrise,
encircled by air, thick
with the dampness
of summer, heavy

with the fragrance
of earth, quiet
with predawn's pulse,
before monarchs glide

and meadowlarks whistle,
I walk this dappled field;
through yarrow, aster,
milkweed—past thistle,

by spiking Oswego tea,
where light awakens
this valley, awakens me.
In this place, flowing

before lobelia, beside
flood-beaten banks, coursing
below limestone cliffs,
waters rush south

to meet Lake Pepin.
Surging through me
renewal rises, in this
my Rush River valley.

©2010 Jeannie E. Roberts (11/8)

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