I lay in bed this morning and watched the first rays of the sun splash through the trees outside the window and turn into a golden dapple pattern on the curtain. A symphony of birds sang a triumphant morning ode to the dawn.
I woke from strange dreams of a small town in an anonymous heartland and the writer Italo Calvino and the long and graceful curves of a woman draped in periwinkle blue. I lay sprawled in bed and stretched out, reaching as if I could embrace the entire morning, feeling the morning in my muscles, drawing it into my lungs.
I rolled out of bed and padded through the apartment, adjusting the windows and the blinds, trapping the cooler night air inside, bracing for the later heat of the day. I stopped in the kitchen long enough to start the coffee pot and pour myself a large tumbler of cool water.
I contemplated the stereo but decided I could not find another song as appropriate as the singing of the birds outside. I slipped quickly through the shower, toweled dry, and dressed in blue jeans and a sandy tan polo shirt. I found my way to the computer and started writing. Sitting here, I rub my hand over the morning stubble and think...not yet. Plenty of time to shave.
It seems that I woke inclined toward poetry this morning. I will affix the responsibility for that to Italo Calvino and my dear T.R. who set my mind toward dreams of periwinkle blue.
"Myth is the hidden part of every story, the buried part, the region that is still unexplored because there are as yet no words to enable us to get there. Myth is nourished by silence as well as by words." -Italo Calvino
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