On waking early

Dawn fingers creep lazily
over the slumbering horizon,
their flow so languid
it could almost be mistaken
for stealth.

Indolent early birds ruffle dormant feathers
and coo their musical hello
across the valley outside my window.

It is the best of times.

The clock on the wall marches
on its tick-tock hands,
marking the passage of the day.

Seconds slip through my fingers
like soup through the tines
of a fork.

Almost imperceptibly,
the early morning inkiness turns
a deep wedgewood blue.
Where, just a moment before,
there was nothing but consuming
black velvet,
now shapes emerge, defining the
edge of the day.
(perhaps that’s why the sun is late)
Naked branches of trees
(shedding early for their winter sleep).

Now the birds have joined us in throng.
The dense silence outside my window
is an orchestra of trills and music.

The joy of being.

The dog whose howl woke me
lies sleeping contentedly
under the desk where I work.
His brother snores dreamily nearby.

All is right in the early morning.

The page of today lies before me,
untainted by spot of ink or thought
of failure.
Its crisp whiteness is alive with possibilities
and hope.

Perhaps today I will achieve.
Perhaps today I will finish what I have begun.
Or at least begin.

Perhaps today.

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