Speckled like a fawn and just as new, the morning pours through the door, unsolicited.
Crickets still celebrate, though their song is more subtle, more like tin than the silver song of night.
Wily wrens circle the bird feeder, light, peck and fly off relishing our contribution to their daily bread ... our morning offering.
The wind gently tussles the weeds like fingers untangling hair, primping, preening, shaking out whatever darkness remains.
The light feels webbed like the screening it permeates from the patio door...as it filters, creeps, climbs, crawls and claws its way through any available opening ...windows, doors, the slender spaces between trees.
It scatters forest shadows about, dragging the outside in.
Insisting really , demanding I attend to it. It tugs and yanks and pulls until the front room floor transforms to the forest floor. The ceiling, a canopy of trees. It knocks on shutters till they're opened and chases the chill of night and dreams out of the house.
The air is clearer here, the colors more vivid and vibrant. You can't look away. At night the stars scream at you, You must attend ...they conduct their ancient ceremonies and you must attend.
Everything in order, everything from enormous to miniscule has its place ... and you must acknowledge, and pay homage to the arrangement, the organization the order of things ...it is an imperative and the light is drawing you to court like a royal mandate ... a gilded invitation ... a golden opportunity. Light is the emissary of Ra.
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