At Dawn

In the quiet hour—
the steady minutes moving,
the only things unsilent
are the deer feeding,
their small rustles moving
outside my window.
The black hills crouch
and glower at the sky growing
from dark to dawn,
and the cool air
smells of mornings camping—
dew-damp pine needles,
the lazy, drifting smoke
from a daybreak campfire.
Kneeling before my window
I press my cheek against
the smooth windowsill.
Who else is waking at this moment?
Who else, strangely restless,
knows this quiet hour
as I do, at dawn,
in this silent place?

Photo by Lane Erickson; do not copy