As I step out the door, the nearby crickets briefly fall silent, and I hear more clearly those in the distance. I imagine all the miles westward yet wrapped in darkness, and how all that land must be full of chirping crickets. Here, under the rising arch of cobalt morning, the birds are beginning to stir. Any crickets continuing to sing this near dawn might find themselves a course in an avian breakfast. As the sky pales, the trees seem to shrink, the looming mystery of nocturnal forest drawing back into the remaining shadows to lurk a few minutes longer. A mauve haze swells in the east, as though tinted steam were rising from the river canyon. I can imagine it being hot enough to make the river steam. For now, there is only the mist drifting from a lawn sprinkler chattering next door. The morning air is fresh and cool. I will take deep breaths of it, that its memory might keep fever from my dreams.