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