David slew Goliath in the spring.
The morning dew still clung
to the leaves and grass as he went.
The spectacle magnificent
as seen from his haven on high:
the haze of purple from the hills;
and framing the landscape of pastels,
the brilliant vault of the sky.
The stark brown tapestry of rocks
against the white and black of the flocks.

The scene grew eerily quiet, still—
clouds, trees, grass, wind—until
he gathered them to drink downstream,
unseen by Israelite or Philistine.
Only the fidgety sheep
watched the perilous future king
pick the pebbles for his sling
(with the selfsame sweep)  
that ran the wolf from the folds,
and earlier plucked the marigolds.