Warm waves gently lap at my consciousness
as the velvet cream of my dream trickles away,
the day’s breath is held in anticipation of the dawn,
each spellbound second is suspended in silence and stillness,
each charged moment is moving inexoriably
towards the impending miracle.

The hawk hovers.
The tiger crouches.
The bewitched audience is transfixed.
The prima donna is ready to make her entrance.

Her provocative orange glow
imperceptibly transmutes
as she casts her electric pink arms
across the horizon.

The deepending fuschia of
her body gathering substance,
the startling surety of her rising
stunning the speechless spectators
as she reveals the last of her firey curves.

The prima donna takes a bow.