In the Morning Mist

The rose unfurls its petals to drink the morning dew, warblers sharpen their trills, granting the Son his due. Mother bat folds her wings, hangs upside down to rest, baby clings to mother's fur, hidden in their leafy nest. Four-o-clocks hide their faces against the dawning light, morning glories open wide, only to wilt and die at night. Leaves on lavish branches with baited breath, await lilting notes of day-wind sighing through the garden gate. Deep within the forest glen, where fox hides and owl hoots, the hidden world changes pace, each creature to its own pursuits. A world without change would soon grow dull and invisible, if all were night or all were day, diversity might be impossible.