|Subject:||a great to-dew|
Somewhere there’s a lawn that is begging for bare toes to sprinkle diamonds across the earth, cascading down from the tall grass-tops of ant redwood forests. That somewhere is the front lawn, while the rest of the world is still hovering in dreaming, stumbling over coffee, seeking the warmth of the night before.
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Yet, out here, before the sun has properly risen, and headlights still wink at us, and streetlamps still flicker with a bzzap and a nod before taking their leave of the day to get their slumber (or go wherever the spirits of the light-trees go when their work has been called away for the day) there is a hum that can be heard - not of the click-brr-roar of the air conditioners, not the click-whrr-grrrr of the garage doors opening their giant maw and burping out all of the cubicle workers, not the clack-whomp-braaahhhh of the garbage trucks clearing away the discarded remnants of an overly-consuming and weighty life...but of the something going on, the somewhere, the here and now, the what is to come, the hustle and bustle dissipating behind a curtain that reveals that there is, in the distance, a reachable destination. The journey? Sometimes needs to be all but over - for at the destination, where we can all meet, is calling us loudly to plan a course (of course) of action.