The Holiness of Morning
I wake at dawn, emerge from my tent by the lake,
driven by necessity, or perhaps wonder wakened by bird song.
The ashes of last night's fire smolder.
One lone plume rises, sign
of the flame that was.
Across the lake a lone fisherman casts.
A circle taps the mottled surface
and the line falls gently, like an arrow back to him.
I hear a splash away to the right--an osprey rises from
the water, pumping powerfully on grey-black wings,
without a fish.
Even for the beast, as for man, fishing is an act of hope.
Many find my loving to rise with the sun silly.
They'd rather sleep till 10 or 2.
But in that first light the earth is freed of all our crimes,
for just a brief time rebooted like Eden again.
The teeming world commits such an act of hope
for a slight hour.
How could I miss it?