Wild Thing

An early walk this morning, into a day just dawning. I leave my earphones out for a while to take in the bird calls, a steady ripple of sound punctuated by the brisk staccato of the woodpecker's drill. 

Walking before 7, something I seldom do these days, is such a gift. It gives us the day before it's lost its creases and its curls, while it's still fresh and still.

Sometimes I see a fox skulking home after a long night of hunting. Other times a young deer, hiding in the grass. 

In early morning, the day is still a wild thing. It does not yet belong to us — if it ever does.