It might have been Easter

 I had not trod

this road before.

It was still fresh

from the moist

months that were

just ending.

As I crested the ridge

and gazed at

the sloping swale,

there was a large

oak, the spring time

leaves emerging

bright and somehow

fluttering without

a breeze.

And they were singing!

They were not actual

leaves; it was

a thousand fold

a multitude of

gold finches.

A chorus of angels

celebrating

a world reborn.

I can summon that sight

that glorious song

from memory and

so I have countless times

over the many springs

and winters since then.

Sometimes thay even

sing within my dreams

and take wing above

that road I had never

trod before.