Monsieur Bach,
dawn lights on lichen,
chartreuse flowing
like rain down
stone barns.

The geese are not yet
in the field,
that moist lace of shadow
and draping foliages.
Rocks
the color of God
ignite momentarily
into bronze.

You are there
walking across
the meadow,
horses drifting
like chestnut dreams
behind you.
The lake is watching,
squinting from within
the forest, its edges folding
into swamp weed
and drowsing ducks.

As you go,
dawn follows,
clicking its stony feet
like the mare
that clips behind you
on your morning jog.

By mid-lake,
morning will weave
around you,
full-colored, wet
and gorgeous with birds.
The frogs will
be tossing songs
deep and algaed across
mud.
One heron
will stake the ground.

Monsieur Bach,
your black jogging
clothes weave
nylon through trees
embraced in history,
in boulders grasped
for centuries in French soil.

By nine o’clock,
you are at our table,
croissants and cheese,
berry jams from thickets,
bidding “Bon jour!
How are you today?”,
the gleam of sweat
still on your arms.

We dip our spoons
into our café,
raise our faces
toward you.

“Well, merci.
Very well.”