Light oozing over the horizon, starting to light clouds, mountaintops – skyscrapers – long before the first warming rays reach the ground, to replace the haunting cold fogs of night.

Advocates of the dawning day, singing outside the window in the old birch, the dog rose, the old willow – turbulent mixture of songs, cried and carried away by time and space, winds telling of songs sung long past and only now.

Mornings.

Mornings!(?)

How I sometimes loathe mornings.

No longer safely cradled in night’s secure embrace, the pale mono-bosom up there in the sky, round, pale, full of night’s tales – no longer nursing the mind, chased away by morning’s warm and gentle, brightly lit embrace; now there is only room for softly lit, warmed but not warm – reality.

How I sometimes loathe mornings…

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