The nearly full moon is setting as I write; that great light shall return this evening in full phase, softly switching places with the very serious sun. It is like the changing of the guard at an ancient palace, all so proper, so lovely. Despite the assumed formalities, somehow the stern and punctual sun tolerates the distracted and oft-disheveled moon, who always shows up at different times, and then rarely in full uniform. Except tonight. Tonight the show will begin as promised once a month (and sometimes twice), on time, in tandem, along the gilt edges of day.
Dawn has not yet fully broken over my head, over my anxious day that is not yet. But my ears tremble this morning with a chorus: Why do the birds always sing at dawn?
In listening I sing, and return to my little house, climbing stairs to a quiet bed.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
2 comments:
They are singing for you night owls, and telling you to go to bed.
Pewster,
Is that the song I hear? And here I thought it was all a paean to my presence.
Bliss!
BG
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