Every Morning

Yellow Mustard 

On my walk,  this morning,  a woman greeted me with hello as she jogged by.
Such a beautiful gesture in times like these when we protect ourselves in bubbles with mask and gloves.

I watched the sun rise over the valley. I stopped to see the sunflowers greet the sun turning their heads towards the light.

I woke up this morning in pain. Digesting too much bad news the night before.  Tears rolled down my face enduring the throbbing of a massive headache. More tears silently fell for all the people and their losses.

I put on my shorts. I tied on my shoes. I wrapped the mask around my face. I left the house looking for hope. 

I found her in fields of yellow mustard. In the songs the birds sing calling in the dawn. In the cut path leading me to the oak tree standing strong. 

I was still in the shadows watching the hawk fly. Feeling the chill of the morning touch my bare legs.  The towhee hopping out of a puddle of water. The crow cawing at me from the branches above.

In nature the backyard bird if she is fortunate lives three years. Any moment her life can be extinguished by so many threats. Every morning,  she wakes up before dawn to sing her song.

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