OUT BEFORE THE SUN:
Dew on the cars, dirt in the wheels, a single tiny bird sits in the top of a tree
singing. John Cage conducts the hiss of traffic on a distant road, the wind
in my ears, the whisper of grass as trainers sleep between the blades.
Before the sound from the dance of shapes begins, before the noise
of conversation I walk out to meet the sun –
held for a moment in it’s blessed silence.