Morning creeps into the air
Like a pink fingered baby.
Perching at the brink
Of the cypress.
The heron,
Its plumes a brilliant cobalt blue,
Cocks its crown in welcome
To the newborn sky.
The sun trickles into view
Bit by bit
Little by little
Settleing, finally
On the mossy water
Like a thin blanket.
Trees billow in the waft of wind
Like damp socks on a clothesline.
The murmur of water
Over the riverbed
Is like the lyrics of a song
Sung without company,
Like the words of a script unrehearsed.
Most will say humanity
Has turned rotten
Like an apple gone sour.
But I have not forgotten
The things that matter—
The things that paint
The canvas of my life.
Each day I see the sun rose
Like an orb of golden light.
I still feel the wind when it blows
Like a whisper from the skies.
I still hear the crickets
As they hum to those who’ll listen.
And, yes, I’ve seen that heron
As it gazes over the swamp,
Its swamp,
The pride dancing in its eyes.

Randa Ahmad
2nd place 5th and 6th grades
LA Writes! 2008
Episcopal School of Acadiana
Cade, LA