Dawn came quiet and clear. A breath of air touched the birches and they whispered secrets in return. The Hollow Brook babbled, and in the east a rooster crowed to his wives: “Wake, ladies, it’s time to peck and scratch, and do leave a few eggs for the nice girls who come by to gather when they toss our morning corn.” The sky brightened with infinite patience, starry black to indigo, indigo to lavender, lavender to strengthening cerulean. The morning’s clouds sailed westerly, phosphorescent ghosts, like ephemeral whisps upon the firmament-ocean. And I knew, as I took part in this slow and perfect August symphony, here is true wealth indeed. More to be valued than all the things for which Man destroys his sacred mother. Worth more than all the offices and raises and recognition in the world. Here was true wealth, in form and in spirit. And it says so much about us that so many value it so little. For here is the meaning of life . . .
Dawn: Quiet & Clear