The most impressive thing
about the sun isn’t
what it does to the sky
at sunrise and sunset—
all that orange and red
and purple and pink—
but rather what it does
to the pines, the most
boring of all trees, of all
things found in nature,
all those little green needles,
caught glowing like prairie-fire,
blue columbine, and lupine
in early spring mornings,
blooming among aspens
flowering catkins in meadows
beside rivers of alpine water
rushing from the thaw, all while
juncos and chickadees and hermit
thrush join in a litany of birdsong.