it was still pitch black when she slid out from under the princess and pea
sized stack of her mother's quilts
her feet slapped the chilly
wooden floorboards
of her grandmother's screened sleeping porch
as she scurried into the main house
made her way into the kitchen
snatched several day old biscuits
stashed them in the pockets of her flowered flannel robe
silently, assuredly she swept a mason jar from the pantry shelf
carefully crept to the icebox
poured herself a fridgid, frothy jar of cow juice
slid silently
out the side door into the crisp predawn air
of the country morning
on winged feet
made her way to her favorite meadow
plopped unpretenciously under the
welcoming branches of grandfather oak
snuggled into the ruff bark of his trunk
a bite of biscuit
a sip of cold cow juice
a smile
what better way to begin a day
than welcoming
the bird's songs?
patiently she waited
the sun began to rise
the field flowers turned their faces toward the light
as her feathered friends songs began
smiling, self satisfied she said outloud, to no one in particular,
it is good to greet the day
it is better to catch the first worm
napowrimo day 7, fooling around with poetic narrative, something i don’t feel very comfortable with
