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.