The first sounds of morning excite in me the joyous beginning of dawn.
Quickly grabbing my coffee, I leave the confines of concrete and stone to perch on my morning lookout.
The sparrows are in the lush live oak canopy, in a state of raucous, excited tweet-speech.
The slight windy breeze greets my cheek.
First, I listen.
What is the world saying this morning?
The sliver of silver moon is high in her eastern perch. She is covered, and uncovered, and covered again, obscured, by wispy clouds which are shape-shifting, and changing colors: white, pink, peach, and a strange bluish, pass the sliver of the glorious Moon.
Suddenly she disappears as the light from the horizon hushes her beauty. Dawn’s second movement begins.
The birds in oak perches have hushed as the songbirds have taken the stage. The beauty of their voices and the repetitive voices of the mourning doves speak of the Sun now.
We then see it together.
Bursting forth in magnificence; the ruler of the day. The sun slowly rises.
Clouds are demonstrating an Artist’s diverse palette. Bright orange, purple, pink, coral, red, and blue, with backlight, are apt at revealing Dawns’ majesty.
The birds are quiet as they, and I drink Dawn in silent reverence.
It has begun.
Today and mystery are here.
The wind, the birds, and I sing the Song-of-Morning in the quietness of our conjoined, beating hearts. Awaiting-next.
