A distant night bird mocks the sun.
I wake as I have always done,
To freshly scented sycamore
And cold bare feet on hardwood floor.
My steaming coffee warms my face
I'm disappointed in the taste.
But there's a peace the early brings
The morning world of growing things.
It was today, it's died away,
And now it is forever gone.
And I will drink my coffee slow
And I will watch my shadow grow
And disappear in firelight
And sleep alone again tonight.
