Do you remember the Carl Sandburg poem we learned in Miss Wheeler's American Lit. class?

The fog walks on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbor and city.
And then moves on.

I always loved that image, even though I had a guilty feeling it was mostly because it was short and easy to memorize - not a bad thing, considering I suspect that even so I've left out a couple of lines. This morning, again, the cool air and the humidity have conspired to lay a cloud over our side of the mountain. It's like waking up to find that you've been placed, like an insect in amber, in a moonstone prison. (Yes, I know, I'm mixing my similes.) As the sun rises, it starts to glow. Beautiful! The birds seem to appreciate it, too. They began, as if at the downbeat of some Olympian conductor, at five o'clock and have been entertaining me ever since. The squirrels are supplying percussion, as well, although I don't appreciate that as much. One of my baby phoebes just fluttered by, adding a brief grace note. (I love their square little heads and watchful eyes and the self-importance of their posture as they sit in the cherry tree just outside the door to the deck.) The roses are blooming their heads off, and the peonies were struggling yesterday against the heat - they should be happier, today. The first goldfinch just stopped by to say hello. Browning's song from Pippa Passes was in one of my childrens' poetry anthologies, but I read Pippa Passes only as an adult:

The day's at the morn.
The morning's at seven.
The snail's on the thorn.
Hillside's dew-pearled.
God's in His heaven.
All's right with the world.

Of course, that wasn't true even in Pippa's world, but a morning like this makes it easy to understand whence the melody arose. I hope your day lives up to the promise of the dawn.