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Her Majesty Dawn flexes Her gray fingers and grabs hold of eastern mountains. She inches Her whole self up to peek over the edge to see who is paying Her homage. At the first hint of Her, birds sing out their territories, re-establishing their boundaries. The red- tailed hawk sits lonely on his high perch, waiting for Her to wake up his breakfast. A few early risers are out with their cameras to catch Her debut amidst plumose pinks and muted mauves. Cool winds feather their way down misted canyons and streams, whispering Her arrival. The Aspen quakes, dutifully, in Her presence. * I awaken, looking like a spent party favor, wondering why all this fanfare should be happening for a Monday |
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