One wakes before dawn.
Robins and grackles are silent in their bowers and shadow.
Clouds pass the moon, obscuring its light, as the maple leaves do when one stands beneath them and looks straight up.
Thought is external.
When we first begin to sense this the tendency - understandably - is to pull back.
The conflation of light and dark is briefly martial in those moments.
The dog goes out and comes back, tongue lolling.
One can almost imagine the sound of rabbits chewing clover behind the woodpile.
Due East, a few strands of oily light appear.
Clouds bunch and float slower.
She writes that it is not a mistake to assume there are no mistakes.
And the form we assume is the form best-suited to the awakening of all life for all time.
Attention is required.
It is an act of love.
The wish to understand is not understanding!
At last I go walking towards the sun.
Birds begin to sing in still-dark bushes.
That which is Love is aware even within the deepest of sleeps.
Even unto death and after.
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