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Five a.m., the time of day when morning lingers in its own dreaming.

The house wraps around me

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in the still dark, draws its breath

from sleeping children in muted rooms.

The children are fair-haired, sacred,

as mysterious as weeping icons.

Even in their sleep, they have a singing presence

meaning more than we can guess.

I walk barefoot and aboriginal through the house,

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knowing my place in the scheme of things,

brewing coffee, throwing clothes in to wash,

working against entropy's inexorable

journeying from order to disorder,

finally pausing at a window, listening

to the sudden silence

of dawn arriving against

a distant rise of barn and trees.

The house sighs, changed in the loss of night.

Beyond, one bird trembling in silvered light

begins to sing.

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