On My Log

On my log I  feel the chilling breeze raising the hairs on the back of my neck, The rough bark along my fingertips,The prick of a pine needle, The soft down of a tiny duckling, The stillness of the earth. On my log I hear the chattering of squirrels,The birds' songs, The whispering of the leaves as they are blown from their branches, And tiny, sneaking feet treading on a mossy ground. On my log I smell the dampness of the air,The earthy dirt surrounding my toes, The sweet apple blossoms, And the sudden burst of evergreen. On my log in the  middle of my favorite place, I see the twinkle of the stars like snowflakes in the first light of the dawn, A tiny spider creeping of a wisp of its web, A shadow in the mist that was gone in an instant, Like a rainbow in the droplets of a waterfall, And maybe even a little fairy sitting watchfully on a leaf, but she disappears too, Like dreams in the morning and a whisper not meant to be heard.