The light gathered on the edges of the treetops, reaching down to the mist-covered ground below. It danced and sung in the autumn air with the strains of mist, those frail wisps of cloud, vanishing midway through its last two-step, lost now beyond the early twinkle of the rising sun. When the sun hit the blades of grass, the dew shook, shivering in the warm light. A small finch began crying, still tucked away in a pine tree’s branches. The sweet, soft sound of the bird’s melody mingled in harmony with the steady rush of water pushing its way through reeds, downed branches and overgrown grasses.
The wetlands were becoming brighter now, forsaking a cold, cloud-ridden day for one last glimpse at a summer disappeared. At the end of its journey summer was prepared to make one last stand against winter’s oncoming onslaught, hoping for the time of spring and rebirth when the sun’s light would gently warm the world. That light, those rays of brilliance, would become His light. And His light would be there to guide his children home.
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