From night are stars shining through.  Ancient light in a wash of unknowing black.  The AM that is young, naïve;  follows no heart.  Unshaped, beautiful;  the born mind knows no imbalance, distraction. From time and place, the beginning of one Being each other.  The same.  Self.  Under the lens of big, open skies that cradle the infant new.  It is faint, weak, barely there, at once powerful in it’s distant burning.  Signs;  waves of color that touch the soft calm.  Vast, twilight scattered, cool.  And shadows begin;  symmetry, form, the coming of day;  the path has been crossed.  The black will fade to Sun, the faithful stars will go in hiding veils.

Breathing sky.  I and the flamed horizon.  Places.  Light, set in vision.  Upward to stars and planets framed in books. Upward to pilots navigating balloons in morning brisk.  Solid determined, young flights.  Places found in the room of me.  In a time.  A recollection of past.  Soaring hot air balloons that are breathed into, upward in colors, in slow steps above fields and hills. They move graceful, placid.  They are morning dreams of I, against big music that propels the windless navigation.  Moving everywhere at once, the scene explodes in every direction, every path, every possibility.  The music is slow, quiet, at times it is silence.