Gently

It's a lovely morning with birdsong. The west is pink with the sunrise, and it is supposed to rain again. J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote that beautiful things are their own song, while they exist, and do not pass into song until they are gone forever.

It's the same with this morning, and this time. The air is fresh and invites me to come outside, to see the sunrise. The grass is still damp with warm dew, and is green again. I saw a herd of deer last night, on the greenway, behind the apartment. The dog had been barking, to warn me of them. A small silver kitten rests on my arm, purring much louder than his body size permits. He vibrates with it. The air outside is the color of his fur, and life has him once again, and he is gone to play.

The gladiolas have come up, the dark spears stand against the white fence. Another unicorn meat eating cat climbs into the dawn through the window. The bats no longer swoop for mosquitoes. Still, the New Adventurers play on.

They are as green as springtime. It is usual anymore, in this small part of the world, that it would already be summer. But we have a late Spring this year. The birdsong becomes more lazy, and remote; a crow caws above the crowd.

The coffee is especially good this morning. I must buy some half and half today; I love iced coffee at noon. I am trying to write poetry for the next reading in town: the topic is War.

I am reminded of a poem by Wilfred Owens:

Futility

Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds, -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved,- still warm,- too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?