The 24th, Unnamed

There is something about,
The early realm of mist,
That slips inside,
Consciousness.
That awakes,
An unsung song,
Curled upon the tongue.
As I walk,
Enchanted,
I watch,
A low slung belt of mist,
Riding up the mountain's hips.
The unyielding day,
Pierce the trawling touch of gray,
Casting its breath of light,
Its breath of life,
Through the descent of condensate.
I watch the pallor,
The sickness,
Evaporate.
Expose the swathes of green,
Breaking through the boughs,
The fronds,
The blades,
Of poised and pending grasses,
Rising in their sheaths.
Drinking,
In the dew.