In the quiet of dawn, in the youth of hope. In the sliver of light, in the grass upon the hill, as it begins to slope.
In the quiet of dawn, in the kiss of the first snow. In the absence of thought, in the morning dew, low upon the lip of the leaf.
In the quiet of dawn, in the swaying of brown leaves in the dusk breeze, the window pane banging against the wall, the wind picks up, a chill steals into the air.
In the quiet of dawn, a drop of rain on layers of dust, a deep sigh when light first registers in the mind, bright orange light peeking through the spaces between the leaves, I feel unease.
In the quiet of dawn, laughter sparkling like falling water, tension coiled tight in a knowing pawn, as she contemplates what they have all taught her, perhaps we deserve this slaughter.
Stand not where the ground rises out of the sea, if you want to escape the water. That place is forever wet.