Morning


Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

~ Cat Stevens, “Morning Has Broken”

In the morning as light comes through the front window, it’s a piece of art, shaped like little orbs and welcoming a new day. It’s absolutely beautiful.

As I lie, drowsy, I stare up at the ceiling and hear the Bewick’s Wren outside, my new alarm clock. The California Towhee is the syncopation, dotting the wren’s metric.

It fills my heart. My chest expands, and I feel joy. I wish I could lie here forever, and then the crow calls to its family in the park, saying, “it’s time.”

The kitchen window; I see dots on the telephone lines, and I think they are finches. I’m not sure, as my eyes are going.

The dog is not ready. She climbs on to the couch where I’ve been sleeping, and lays her head on my pillow. It’s a perfect Sunday.

Let’s begin again.

 

 

 

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