A blush appears at the top of the eastern hills.
I watch it grow in brilliance, peak, then fade.
Now there is no indication that moments ago
the sky over the hills was bright pink.
I would have missed the magic
if I had run for my camera.
Sometimes the wisest thing one can do
as a photographer and a sojourner
is to be still and pay attention.
That’s how poetry is birthed.
Indeed. Your words convey more than a photo, however lovely, might.
Thank you, Alexa.