In early morning earth tunes up its harp.
Emerging from the flat dark night, the sharp
shrill bird songs call me from my silent sleep
where I in cottoned quiet cannot keep
my consciousness awake. I spiral down
to places where my dream becomes my town.
I star in my own movie, watch the flow
of action, but then with the morning’s glow
remember nothing. Now the flutes sing tunes
and I come into wakefulness. Day croons
its melodies from sunrise into bright
surprises. Could these gifts have come from night?