The day awaits,
hard like cold iron,
waiting to be heated and
hammered into some fresh, new shape.
The loud banging of the hammer and anvil
a song to be heard throughout the day,
but yet to begin.
The fog,
clinging to everything it touches,
trying so very hard not to lose its tenuous hold on life,
whimpering as it slides down the hillside.
The crows beckon,
from on high and down low,
their voices stabbing through the quiet,
making their intentions known.
What they're saying
is readily heard;
what is being said remains a mystery,
lost in translation.
The sound of all things,
loud and quiet,
gentile and shrill,
soft and sharp,
caresses me like the hands of a lover,
with a mind of their own,
wants and needs of their own,
and their own