I wake up at five thirty-three AM and decide to go
for a walk. My bunkmates are snoring gently
in their sleep as I slip into my flip-flops
and go.1
I sit down by the lake and
watch clouds of fog drifting lazily
across the mirror glass. A small
jet-black bird with red and orange wings
sings
sweetly in a tree nearby.2
I close my eyes and wonder
why the ungodly hours of the
morning are the ones in which
I feel closest to the
quiet workings
of the
universe.
Author notes
My summer camp is a really beautiful place, especially in the morning, but no one is ever awake to see it except me.
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