Waning dawnsat an open doorbeckoning a bleary writerto awe,bitter coffee contrastedwith the sweet of birdsong,crickets, sunstreakscreaking over maple & mountain.Soon mornings will requirea closed door,strategiesfor hunkering against cold,the Holiday Season, the urgeto hibernateunder a mountain of quiltswith the furnace on.This morningpull on socks & sweater,take what you can get,gratefulfor what you have been given.