The birth of our day.
All fresh and touched with
The Master's hand
in dewy majesty.

The shell of sky
wet with foamy clouds.

The earth awaits wheeling birds
to rest again - benign in the
trees of their birth.
Burbling and raucous
in their boisterous
roosts.

Cacti creep along the
last vestiges of the
velvet night.

A coyote laughs.

He makes his lone way
up the still, starlit, streets.

And all is embraced by the
embarking orb emanating for eons
from the eastern estuaries.

I write upon mornings
because they are the marks of time
upon beginnings.

The new year begins at midnight.

But the new day?
ahh... the new day begins

with the

SUN.



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