5:53 a.m.

On a limb of the camellia tree
just beyond the front door
the hummingbird guards a tiny nest
and her lone hatchling
against the breeze.
At the foot of the bed
the cat—improbably contorted in sleep—
struggles awake, stretches,
opens one eye, a green slit in black fur.
Through the curtains
light shifts suddenly,
washes walls orange.
On the nightstand
the phone is stone-silent,
still—outside the sunrise
is oh so loud.