Master of the Morning
I awoke stunned by the silence of the morning — an egg uncracked; a package unopened; a band poised to play. Somewhere distant and quiet a shooting star riots into the changing sky, triumphant, yet fleeting. The morning is always raw, unfinished, still trying to find its compass.
Houses sit quietly, unmoved by the morning’s celestial beauty. A few lights twinkle harmlessly in an upstairs bedroom window. Perhaps a young girl with a restless imagination discards sleep in favor of a book about dragons and fierce, courageous warriors. Or a Mom scurries about, getting the laundry done before her three children rise with demands for food, clothes, attention.
I like the morning. I can’t wait until the next episode. Each one clean, original, fresh — a work of art to be celebrated.
Until next time,