Morning is warm.
It is quiet.

It is the comfort of rest and embrace,
the prospect of beginnings,
and relief behind the lilac bush.

Morning is crisp.
It is still.

It is the welcoming of sun
and light into fog and darkness,
spilling through valleys, warming the fox’s den.

Morning is mine.
It is virgin.

It is the freedom to be,
to have choice and time before being
tangled in [fowl-driven] misdirection.

Morning is vibrant.
It is full.

Morning is the young Willow
stretching limb and leaves heavenward,
Morning is the dandelion seed
dancing a waltz through the gentle westward breeze,
Morning is a newly formed crack in the Robin’s egg
feeding first breath through baby’s beak.

Morning is possibility.