softly in the glowing of dawn

the coming of dawn is a wonderful thing. here, and everywhere. here the clouds slowly turn from the flat grey of twilight to a mottled fluffiness, then a faint pink, and finally orange as the depths of blue sky distinguishes itself. it is a backdrop which floats the dawn, carrying it where it will go. the soundtrack is faraway rooster, and mourning doves and the chirping and exit of my house birds who’ve made a home outside my window, off into the morning to find worms, or bugs, or whatever they would substitute in their avian world for a fine french croissant, and a deep long espresso. i’ve just seen a bugcatching bevvy here, laid flat on the cool tile floor, on the edge of the garden, my sandy shoes are ‘pillow,’ if we could call it that. looking into the infinity of sky, a sea of tiny darting bats, giving way to swallows each zipping this and that way in their own distinct dance in the sky. amidst the darting and weaving, waves of large birds pass slowly, heading for the ocean, elegant and in formation, their wings translucent against the delicate light of morning, and barely moving, gliding, across the tiny slice of infinity that i can see to beyond, wherever that is for them.

time is frozen in a long long moment i won’t forget.

my piss-poor dove call, clumsy and foreign to be sure, certainly sounding an asshole in the bird world, is enough to tease more calls from the dove on the rooftop next door to me, who is puffed up and staking his claim on the she-dove there, the two of them only distinguishable from the ornamental rooferie, by their bobbing dove movements. how could you not fall for him, she-dove, with those moves — so funky, feathered, and earnest? i am reminded of a paper route i once had, and its requisite 4am sunday run, so quiet and wrongfully early, and the crow call found at a nature shop somewhere that made it so much more interesting, attracting a flock of feathered friends. i believe the complaint read ‘… was blowing a trumpet while delivering papers…’ ha. (you’ll know when i blow a trumpet. believe me, you’ll know!)

but here the quiet rolls on and the first sounds of faraway motorbikes appear and disappear. its gonna be another gorgeous one says i. soon the bed with its fairyland curtain of gauzy mosquito netting, and the breeze, and soothing whir of a wonderful, remote-controlled fan will say good night, and good morning to me. i wonder, now, what time zone am i really in? my heart in one, my body in another — timeless again, and always.

i am appreciating the smallest things, which are everything to me now. i am a mere fortnight away from the time and space travel of a flight home, to one home at least, to one where many of you are. i shall not forget these days, these mornings and nights of birdcalls, bad hotel cover bands and the magic of serendipity, which seems to rule gently over everything else here. let the sounds of doves fill your days, my friends, or trumpets, if you’re an orchestral type.

greetings from a soft sweet morning in bali,



About homemaderules

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