The Hour Before Dawn
It is quiet in the hour before dawn.
Quiet, but not still.
The lone cricket sings his trilling tune.
The refrain repeats over and over.
A single string plucked and plucked again
like a teenager’s love lament.
A lonely mosquito buzzes above
as tiny spiders await their prey;
making their journeys across
the pale white tundra of ceilings and walls.
They stand watch, guarding their webs.
Through the windows silky gray clouds glide through
the faded inky sky.
Silent stars accompany the moon on her travels.
A light breeze blows.
The night's waning, shallow breaths before dawn.
Time moves by day to the rhythm of our actions.
Our conversations the music which escorts us as we dart from
place to place
But the hours of night tumble swiftly as we slumber,
marked by the sound of the old grandfather clock,
chiming the passage of time;
he breaks the silence
again and again.
It is quiet in the hour before dawn
while most slumber in their beds,
tossing and turning,
dreaming dreams of forgotten yesterdays
mixed with bits of tomorrow
and slivers of worry,
We enters the altered worlds of slumber.
Fighting dragons, saving worlds
being who we are not
or who we wish to be.
Sleep well, friends.
Let the breeze tickle your face.
Smile in your sleep, like a babe.
The cloak of darkness will be your blanket.
Let it soothe you
as your eyelids flutter gently,
as the breeze blows through the lace curtain.
It is quiet in the hour before dawn,
the time before reality begins.
Allow the silent lullabies to rock you,
as night's darkness fades
and escorts in the infant dawn.