She is called a Blue Moon. The last one for a few years. Labels and names can be so deceiving. She graces the drought stricken trees, stripped of their leaves before Fall, with the brilliance of yellow they will not know this year. Bearing their naked imprint, she fills them with splendor as they dance.
I clasp my hands to my heart, with a smile and sweet tear, I bow to her gentleness and wonder if anyone else will notice the simple, wonder, of nature's love and embrace. And then I smile again, capturing the tiny stream of tears. She needs no applause. She needs no audience. The dance is enough.