I can check the weather later.
I can think about the things I need to write
in the cards I need to buy, but later.
I can worry about
who will watch my dog tomorrow,
if it storms, later;
about that damned traffic school
(when should I begin it?)
later; about what cellphones I should
someday get for the children I might
someday have

As a child, my friends would ask for me
early, early in the day.
My mom would answer,
“Courtney, it’s a little soon to be calling.
Will you try again in a couple hours?”
My mom would answer,
“Ryan, David, it is far too early
to be ringing the doorbell.
She’ll come outside when she’s ready.”

Yes, a morning is something sacred.

The light around me changes without a sound.
Shadows hang like sloths from
everything—slow-moving and silent.
I hear in, in this quiet, no quiet at all.
Our windows are old and warped and
the room fills with the sounds of
songbirds singing, squirrels bickering,
some kind of insect
(grasshopper? cicada?)
chattering together in waves, rolling
in and out as a tide on the
shore of the day.

My concerns for the day, for the future,
are still knocking, so I open the door to say,
“It is far too early, my friends.
I’d love to talk, but it must be

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