Morning Time

Previous dawns flock together, gather. The hedgerows accumulate with old and new. Sprigs and twigs bend under the weight of heaping feathers. If eyes open too soon then a few mornings go missing, some are still catching up they will fly in backwards tumbling out of windswept decades. Eyes that open too late have to wait, have to stare at a future blankness while ears gatecrash the present. Will the thrown newspaper land on the lower or upper step? Such collective collections determine next steps. The percolator has mixed together a thousand morning yet it arrives in normal time as one brew. Outside, beds creak in the tree tops. blankets unroll. We find ourselves on the verge of all previous verges, swing legs to touch a floor that rises to show up once more.