White quiet morning, left to the lords of the night. Like vampires they claim the sunless sky to fly freely, beaking at bugs unaware of the difference that dawned on this day.
Treefrogs are peeping in coolness of night, ignoring the light, forgiving the hands on the clock that can lie. Red and blue streaks and the greylings and blackbirds, still sleep in the lack of the warm giving rays.
When will they notice, I wonder; that day has already appeared.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology