Breath

The last whispery remains of a dream fray into forgetfulness. I get up and go downstairs to quietly sit in a chair beside the window and stare into the outside dark. A few stars hang suspended in the silhouette of a tree. Six o'clock. The morning seems to have been waiting for me to bring breath to its silence and movement to its still. It is like a child eager to show off its tricks - birds bursting out of bushy hiding places, a backyard revealed from beneath a cloak of nightlong dark and me from my own.