It is gray and barely dawn. She shakes herself by the bed, our special language, punctuated by a nose. As I open the door, cool flows in, she out. She is greeted by birdsong in waves. It pours over her. She lifts her muzzle to it, standing like a statue with a ferny tail. I am sure the birds have awaited her, and, like the soft-handed leaves, which the breeze is clapping, greet her now, as all applaud the just arriving light.