William Barnhill

From here until tomorrow the weather seams quite clear;
Before the roosters calling, before the paper falls upon the porch;
Before the birds begin to sing along the roadsides wooded stretch;
Before the night's cool fresh embrace is but a memory;
Before the coyote's voice and song of the owl fade across the golden hills;
I wait from here until tomorrow to see it all again;
Watching ghostly shadows scurry up the crest of every mountain;
Running from of the depths of sandstone canyons.
As night retreats stripping its dark cloak from the land;
Fading slowly away before the light of the brilliant morning star;
It kisses the day in sweet embrace;
While gently passing, saying, "I shall return and give you rest";
From here until tomorrow across the open fields;
Within the forest's green retreat;
By streams cool reflection of sky and tree;
Upon the dew soaked grassy clearing.
From here until tomorrow the meadows seam to sing;
Until the day turns into night;
Until the stars rule above;
Until the ocean cools a burning orange ball;
Strapping the last lines of light upon its back;
Quenching the great fire;
For another turn until tomorrow.