It's 7, close to 8. The sun rose far and high, across blue clarity comes the haunting chirps of birds, whose prescence is invisible, but its echos etched into the air like footprints on sand. The volume imprints through the air, shattering silence.  I love mornings, and seeing the sunrise from its peak to shuddering completion means more versus hearing a second person's sterling description. Abstract, classical angelicism convinces me that I am in a apprentice's canvas. Arcing my arms like a peregrine, I heard the leaves rustling, saw the light cascading through a shield of sheer transparency. My home was lit, and even chandeliers would be outmatched in blaze. A blue-green sphere invites a sky of neutrals. Wisps of grey knits about the blue, and thus sculpting a smoke of whimsical watercolors. A chill of air moves my soul, as it brings the birds to flight, at last in sight. Rays above softens and dims, may it be by will or by a misty tumbleweed of white? Reverence possess me, as it would for anyone, if time is taken to thank for heaven's glorious grace. The rest's mirror turns vintage, though clearness stains in the midst of ciderfall brilliance. Across the country outdoors, there would be verdent valleys quenched in rainy dewdrops of the dawn. Turtledoves choirs melodically thereafter, reminding me of Armonia's chapter one. Stony lila barks of cedar I think of, and frozen ashes of blue most resembles morning, wherever it might exist. Ivy climbing walls and young, sage leaflets sailing in the river. I must leave, so through last note, these words of mine will say to a limit, therefore it's a gift to overeastimate what is read because the exterior is universal. Each hour, season, and weather creates a time endangered in repetition. Typing adjourned.