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It’s more quiet this morning than usual. It’s the time of year when the windows begin stay open overnight. Usually, at sunrise, there are birds making a lot more music than today. The bats are leaving the evening domain, and retiring to their roosts, wherever they are. Deer are quietly and gingerly rising from their matted grass and moving along.

All of these things are happening, but for whatever reason, it seems more thin. Even less audible than usual. The dawn needs more time to stretch, it wants to take a cautious look around before commencing with fullness.

The warbler sets in the towering Cypress. Typically, he’s vocal, enthusiastically so. Today, however, he perches, head cocked, observing me with one eye, as though expecting a report. “Hello.” I say. Pensively, not presumptuous, at all.

“Look.” I tell him. “I know I’m a two-legged, but I didn’t do all this. They don’t exactly let guys like me make policy.” I say. “Trust me, things would be a lot different.” He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. He finally exclaims something personal toward the sunrise, and goes for a flit around the yard.

The sunlight is a slow tide. The field is washed of the neutral morning twilight. Gold shimmers on evergreen needles. It splashes between waving treetops.

A loud billow of warplanes sweeps across the morning sky.

226 Words

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