Sixty-two degrees at six a.m.,
to the east, the sun a molten ball;
the shadows long and dark,
shady, black and tall.
The trail is rocky, dirt-filled,
waiting for our tramping feet;
the dogs, anxious, restless,
quick and limber, fleet.
Two vagabonds just wandering,
breaking dawn's sweet rest;
with exercise and quiet thoughts,
in the arid, cloudless west.
Sharing little conversation,
enveloped by silent dreams;
we passed the cottonwoods,
across hot, dried-up streams.
Early morning walks are best,
with eager, fellow beings;
blessed by great companionship,
and the earth that we are seeing.