Not a sunrise gal,
but when I’m in an east-facing
place with a view of

a. horizon
b. water
c. mountains

or some combination thereof,
the lightening of sky into
a gently feathered gray-blue

over a band of soft tangerine will
often propel me to the vertical.
And, before undertaking

any other half-asleep business,
I make my way to a window
to gently push shades aside

to see what the day might be
made of. Those who do this
on the regular might chuckle

at my open-mouthed awe
over the purity of a moment
magnified by capital N nature.

But I, night-hunting poet that I am,
generally miss the day’s first
rays because I have lingered late

on high branches, scanning
below for the just-right rhythm,
the scurrying words that

prompt takeoff into the dark,
my vision sharpened, gliding
until my talons can snatch

the wily verbs, the soft adjectives
and sturdy nouns to consume
before sleep. Before I am

awakened by blossoming light
that brings me half-lidded
to watch the impending arrival

of our nearest star in its full glory,
when I get to behold the cascade
of land meeting sea,

of mountains peaking into
an always glorious,
don’t-wanna-miss-this,

never-gonna-have-this-precise-
moment-again
dawn.

•••

(Thanks again for your generous hosting, Terri and Al!)