In June, the northeastern sky grows pale early, and, behind the houses on my block, the trees that, through the night, were a single shadow against the dark sky, emerge again as individuals, trunk and branch, leaf and needle, cone and twig growing distinct in the crisp air. On Sunday, the morning is wrapped in silence. No commuters drive along the nearby roads, no doors slam. There is only the steady chirping of the crickets, like the heartbeat of the forest, and, after a while, the twittering of a few birds. The world expands into this vast serenity, and sense becomes one with emptiness, devoid of weight, devoid of time. Gravity abolished, I drift into a point of light. Sunrise.