The Pause

It is barely light; the coffee cup abandoned last night is half full of shadows. Through the window an armada of geese rows across a silent movie. A shallow doorstep of time has pardoned this moment of all past crimes. The world (that prismatic spinning ghost) has not washed its eyes yet, the kitchen clock still dreams. The coming day will sneak through a mousehole of possibility garbed in new clothes, a look so unlikely that you may not see it arrive. You have to show up in this pause, to know when that river of you is flowing and rising, then you can ride the wake of the travelling geese while making fresh coffee. Hear the wild sky singing under journeying wings.