GIFT OF THE CRAZY BIRD

The crazy bird yelled his extended and manically repetitive klaxon call from a tree branch right next to my open window before dawn this morning (I've never seen a crazy bird, they only scream at the dark edge of morning while I'm sleeping), levitating me to such a height that I gave up and got up earlier than I would have, so was privileged to stand at the loft railing just as the sun was clearing the mountains across the lake and filling all that water with molten gold. It was like looking into an outdoor-sized gold foundry, while at the edges the distant reaches of Shiga were taking on that hazy gray-blue you run into at the far side of imagining, which is always a good place to be, especially before breakfast, which I ate while watching the rest of the gold get poured into the mold of the day. Thanks, crazy bird. But maybe you could yell somewhere else tomorrow morning?