Morning joy

Four a.m.

The quiet that only exists in the early morning hours.

I make my way in the dark to my command post;

The glow of the computer, the nest I love the most.

Today I will get back to my writing.

And then I hear the drip, drip, dripping of rain

Off the porch roof; puddling in the garden,

The pace changing as if the drummer switches beats;

Now coming down in heavy sheets;

A moment later slowing gently to a waltz.

The few cars splashing by lay d own the melody

And the birds awakening join in.

Light slowly creeps up from the east

And, oh, the joy at being at the feast,

Awash in a symphony of senses.