A mourning dove moans off in the woods, sorrowfully singing its plight. Nat King Cole plays softly on the piano. A few birds accompany him and begin to sing in notes divine. Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Day has come. Seeing night become day is as hopeful an act as the earth gives us. A new day is filled with a set of time, blank, waiting to be filled in. It is like an unedited one-man play. What will the play be: a comedy, a tragedy, a narrative love story, a drama, satirical, longing, documentary, or historical? All the above…in doses I hope I can handle or live up to.
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| Me and my dog. |
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