Ballad Of An Early Riser

Time has its own internal clock,
speeding ahead or slowing,
dictated by the gravitational tug
of mood and circumstance,
and, as every early bird knows,
it is less attentive when
the earth seems poised motionless
between a maze of stars
and day’s first inquisitive song.

Again, I tiptoe down the stairs
so as not to disturb that
great bird into startled flight,
in hopes of discovering,
before a dormant breeze stirs
dawn’s first faint blush
with the rushed whirr of wings,
an enchanted moment,
reluctant to welcome the next.


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