Five A.M. Outside my window, the silhouette of the mountain going from black to brown, the night's deep blue lightening to pale. I begin to make out shapes in the earth: sage, pine, stones. The birds fill the air with their bird syllables, preparing for their day. What are they doing? Making lists? Telling each other it's time to get up? Or just singing, because the awakening light tells them to sing?
Morning. This is my favorite time to work. My dreams, even the ones I don't remember, are still scuttling around inside my bones, having moved some boxes and swept away some dust during the night. And the day has not yet filled me with what I have to do or what I haven't done or where is the time going anyway.
Now the bird-sounds are more persistent, precise, as light brings clarity to the objects that just few minutes ago were dim shapes. There are my neighbors' two saplings, planted in large wooden pots. The silhouette of the mountain shows its clumps of trees, the varying shades of green outside the window announce themselves. Soon there will be quail, and bluejays, and blackbirds, and a ground squirrel, scratching and hunting in the dirt for the seeds I'll scatter on the ground.
So I take a few minutes, just to watch the arriving light, while seeds left by the dreams of the night before push against my bones, waiting to be born.