Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous;
gray light streaking each bare branch,
each single twig, along one side,
making another tree, of glassy veins...
The bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn.
excerpt from ELIZABETH BISHOP, "Five Flights Up"
my mornings lately have been early. too early, perhaps. but i am learning how to appreciate what often seems like an ungodly hour; the quiet, the still, the haunting, the earthly. i am trading in my night owl for the early bird.