Dawn In a Summer Garden

At the exact moment of dawn, that micro-second when the sun, from millions of miles away, fires its first beams like lasers as it crests the curvature of the Earth and one of those laser beams pierces the dank and humid darkness of the lush garden and suddenly all sounds cease, as if someone had flipped a switch and the deafening silence is felt as pressure, as if some spectoral hands has cupped themselves over one's ears--a muffled roar of seashells held up to a child's ear, longing to hear the ocean of one's youth. Then the beam shifts and touches the tender edges of a few chosen leaves and then settles and spreads itself over a gossamer arachnoid treasure woven with mathmatical precision wafting slightly in a gentle morning breeze like the sail of a fairy ship, quivering dew drops caught and transformed into a dozen crystal prisms, sparkling jewels, multi faceted fluid diamonds and then just as quickly as it came it is gone, this magical moment, as the brutal sun climbs higher and the soft buttery light sharpens and spreads its heat and the steam begins to rise from the dark earth, wispy, reluctant spectors of the Southern night and the muffled quiet is broken by the clear song of a cardinal, a flash of magnificent red amongst the many shades of green, as the creatures of the night burrow deep, hiding from the searing summer heat that has already begun in this southern garden of light and dark song and silence beauty and distruction and so another magnolia-laden summer night is gone and one must reluctantly rise another summer day begun.