Morning

Two little birds with yellow heads peck at the cold ash in the fire pit, seeking the baked carcasses of beetles and wood ticks. A pale blue sun is on the water and wisps of fog skate above the face of the water, forming the final ruminations of dawn. The two birds fly off, then straightaway return, as if on elastic threads, or like honeybees to flowers. Everything is very large at morning time. Everything inhales and expands, throwing out arms, filling the lungs of the new day—large and robust and brittle and uncertain, waiting for the trout to begin to feed. Nothing of this day has been touched as yet. It has only just opened its eyes.