Dawn comes early these days.

Dawn comes early these days. With the cool breeze that is more delicious than grandma’s brownies and the sweetest caviar, the birds sing in the morning as if with their voices they literally carry the light into the valley, pulling it up over the hill.
It is the slow mornings that are the most delectable. Savoring each change of light, each breath of day and letting the dancing sounds sweep into the valley.

It is when there are many things happening that there is no time to write of them. But when little is happening that there is time to see all the movement of the world. His morning little is happening. The people are not yet awake. Only the light and the birds know the day has begun and together they are ushering in the dawn. Together they will wake up the world until this valley is humming with the voices and movement of a generation.

It is the one voice I treasure which I long to hear, but I fear that voice is lost, out in the long grass, beyond the fences of down over the cliff. Deep in the riverbed or beyond. Or what if that voice has found more comfort in the house of a neighbor. How can so much comfort reside in a tale. Where a reality is realigned and all woes are wiped away replaced by the simple sensation of a tender tail on the back of my leg. Here, kitty, kitty.

Slowly morning sets in. the changes were subtle and without warning the dawn turned into day. One more opportunity to live this day, drink it in, savor the flavor, sweet and sour, bitter and juicy, with tang and zest. The cool air of night is already slinking off to hide under the trees and in the dark places be avoid being scorched by the sun.