The Crickets Let Lax Their Nighttime Tunes

The morning sun's bright eyes blink open after her night of restful slumber, she stretches her slender fingers over the tops of the trees and caresses them, as one might caress the hair of a tired child, the gold of her skin slips between the short stalks of winter grass as she runs away from the eastern mountains, towards the sleeping houses and barns, sheds and nests, and hollowed trees that are the homes of so many. Her fire-y hair streams behind her like the pennant of some mighty fortress slapping in an angry gale. she climbs first up the side of the hill, letting the wet fronds of grass, bush, and flower swish against her warm body, feeling the coolness of the night before dissolve beneath her pattering feet. Up she goes, over the crest and down again on the other side, tripping lightly to the middle of the field, all the while singing sweet songs into the windows and doorways of nearby dwellings, sweetly waking all who are not yet up and about. "I've come," she sings "I've come and it's begun again." Her voice lilts off the meadow tumbles and hillocks, melting the frosty shadows and nudging the birds to join in her melody "I've come, I've come, Now up, you come too, up, up, and follow me all the way to the west." The birds begin to sing along, and the crickets let lax their nighttime tunes, making room for morning, in all her young newness of song. She has come again, fresh and sweet and ready to set loose the joyous harmonies of another day.