Gold on Gray

The backdrop of sky is as smoke from a thousand cannons;
    storm gray;  looming;  ominous.
I ascend the hill, northward
    while a line of brilliant, golden arrows appear;
    rising slowly, pointing skyward, poised for battle.
Countless, shining sentries standing guard for the smaller hills behind.
Tamaracks;
    some young and stunted, others tall and sturdy.
Together they form an unbroken battle line.
Never having left their post, these stalwart soldiers reflect, as gold buttons on the gunmetal-gray lapel.
More brilliant, lit by the very God of the universe.

On the next rise the evergreens, broken haphazardly by the rust of oaks
    and dazzling yellow of the birch trees;  an occasional pale orange cluster, resembling
    a huge peach tossed to the mountain and caught in the treetops before reaching the earth.  This,
    the towering poplar, reluctant to shed her gorgeous garb.

Soon the tamarack will drop its million quills. 
    I've tread through her soft, luxurious, saffron carpet; elegant, as in a king's palace.
Unlike all her needled cousins, sturdy tamarack will stand uncovered all Winter;
    branch and trunk laid bare to the harsh elements.

For now they shine brightly against this smoky sky;
    gold on gray.