The First Morning

If this morning were the first morning,
the first dawn of the world's awakening,
to what would I be drawn?

Would I pay more attention to what have become
the common, expected happenings of early June...
the red-winged blackbird's squeaky song
and the complicated warbles of the house wren,  
the tiny chipmunk's indefatigable energy
as he bounds around the barn,
startling a pair of chipping sparrows with his 
boisterous antics?

Would I gaze in greater wonder at the sight 
of ruby-throats on the 
blue salvia, meticulously working each flower
or the exquisite colors of the 
fuchsia hanging on my front porch?

Would I delight in the ghostly, 
back-lit appearance of gnats in flight,
or the single strand of a spider's silk glinting in the sun,
or dewdrops sparkling on the still grasses 
in the field across the road? 

Would I smile at the ash's swaying branches,
or the breezes on my cheek,
the bluebirds' soft whistles 
and the catbirds' persistent chatter?

Were it the first morning, I would not need to turn  
to these gifts for solace, 
for refuge in times 
of the fear and anger and sadness
that had not yet come into the world.
And yet, in our day,
these common, expected happenings
of early June
have become just that.
Thanks be to God.