When the world is quiet

The song of a crow isn't very soothing, but thankfully, the one awake with me this morning is content to caw only a few times so far.

Day is creeping across the top of the pine forest on the steep slope below me, and I've been watching its golden light brighten hues of greens and browns which just 90 minutes ago were blanketed in deep black.

It's Saturday morning, and normally I'd be watching crap on TV, but this morning, I'm tucked away in the mountains of Arrow bear.

For now, I am alone. It seems the whole campground is still asleep. The quiet is absolutely amazing, and to my surprise, my crow friend passes overhead to check me out. He's making a strange sound...one I don't recognize. It's only as I watch him fly directly over me that I realize I'm listening to the beating of his wings.

Then...a raspy flutter...a crispy crinkling. An oak leaf flutters to the ground, and suddenly I'm obsessed with the minutiae of morning.
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Sent from my monkey's typewriter.