Teyah Parent, features editor 

Morning spills roll through trees,
 dew trembling on the edge of leaves.
 A river washes in its solemn song,
 wandering clouds carry on.

The wind silks poems in the grass,
 soft stories only hills can ask.
 Mountains listen, old and still,
 while shadows drift across the mill.

And somewhere in the open sky,
 a hawk draws circles drifting nigh
 reminding every bird and beast
 how wild the world can be.