No one is alive at 5:37 a.m.
Only the occasional passing car reminds me
That I am not the sole occupant of this landscape
--still alien after three months
Which hovers under the pre-dawn sky
(That peculiar shade of light grey almost imperceptibly tinted blue
Which never comes to Texas.)
I have endured another of a string of sleepless nights
(Because of you, as is everything)
To find myself here, a default early riser.
I relish the secrecy the solitude grants me
This morning belongs to me alone.
Last night's silent storm
Has left behind a chill in the air and the dull smell of wet earth.
I twitch my cold fingers and systematically observe
My own fraction of the infinite catalogue of details:
A thousand birdsongs, only the crow's familiar.
Smoke billowing from the greenhouse chimney.
Sidewalk chalk proclamations, eerily waterproof.
The ducked heads of flowers ashamed at their own beauty.
My legs stiffen as I run home
Startled to find myself so inspired
By something as obvious as a spring morning.