The sound of the cicadas rolls in like waves.
The sky this morning is a gentle blue,
with wisps of clouds pinned in place in the sky—
each painted its own pattern in whites and grays,
the artist showing off his mastery with feathered strokes.

I especially love the way the summer-green trees
extending the fingers of their branches as if in prayer up into the sky,
making a pleasing filigree.

And now, the cicadas, softly in the background,
permit the calls of the birds
to be added to the orchestration—
and the pageantry of this morning is complete.

I close my eyes
and see the artist who has staged this scene
and the maestro in his tux and tails
come forward to take their bows
and realize it is time for me to begin my day