Morning peers like a periscope into the midnight watching for the electric flashes of the new day. Morning observes the new day wearing a hat made of seven sun rays. All the rays are the size of Africa. The morning blinks. She sees the new day arguing with yesterday because yesterday forgot to take the garbage out and has left muddy footprints on Wednesday's white carpet. As usual, 5 am brings the end of the argument and then yesterday and the new day make love, their off-spring are periwinkles. The new day is scrawled over the eastern horizon, Collecting small trumpet shells with long shadows, and fading stars. The new day listens to the stirring of the wind, the flight of the great blue heron, and then gestures to the morning to begin its morning routines. Morning is alive now with the new day shimmering contentment, never tiring of this perpetual return. The morning delicately delivers the new day to noon. But noon, once again, is out to lunch.
