When waking well before the sun appears, there is soft light. Barely perceptible yet clear. Leaves won't appear on trees for a few more weeks, nor streetlights along the quiet road of this old house that touches the Housatonic River. The light peeking over the curtain above my bed, when cleaning a dish in the kitchen, and after meditating. Before the earliest birds in New England begin to sing, these mornings of late winter are green.
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