The Morning Calls Hour

The morning calls hour has come, as daily it does... ahead of dawn - The whistles, the chirps, the lilts and caws have come and filled the empty air; the air so empty all light has fallen out; perhaps through the sieve of stars. Holes of light leaking sight away into the other next, or first, or last. The clouds drift past; an ever-offering Eastern sky dribbles endless puffs of white-stuff which drift overhead. Heading toward the light. Unseen streams of air both draw and push these yet-to-rains from beyond the skyline to beyond the treeline. A huff-chuffing squirrel is overhead cavorting and exhorting in the mulberry-leafed maple with leaves so big and profligate so as to hide every branch. There’s an urgency to its gutturality as it chatter-clambers through the density of burgundy tree. I’m in hot water again. Soaking in the hot wet. Writing tools all here - Keyboard. Tea. Time... The cat, important, though not a tool. Still, though - pressed into use, as it were. But the thoughts do not come. Unlike the clouds, which we’re taught are thoughts. Or, is it, “...unlike the thoughts, which are like the clouds.”? But I don't have the thoughts, undercloud (under dark cloud) though I am. Only these thoughts which I very very do not like. A lone goose now. Also undercloud. Also, aiming East. To light. To life. To next. To new. Thoughtless. And not unclouded. So unlike my thoughts.