I can barely write for the sun in my eyes. My mood has escalated in the few short minutes of the sun's rising. All I can hear are the birds and my own blood pulsing. It is still early, but warm enough to sit outside, a blanket around my shoulders and just a little chill on my bare feet. I sit still and the birds are taking no notice of me: warblers flitting from chokecherry to gooseberry, robins diving from the cottonwood to the wet grass looking for worms, magpies scolding from a distance. Small black birds cruise by as if this were a highway and more robins fly from across the road straight for the cottonwood, adeptly finding a perch. I am just another creature in the yard.
