Morning

On one of the last mornings in Lui I listened to all the sounds I would miss. 

I awake to the sound of the familiar
First come the crows of roosters 
mixed in with the fading night sound
of crickets and frogs.
Then comes the answer of the birds
in percussive answer ooh, ooh, woo.
Next are the wild dogs chime in 
with howls which rise up as a lonesome cry 
to the sky in mourning for lost companionship 
and no kind hand.
Last to come are the morning song birds near the light of day.
For light is slow to come in this dark land.
But the night sky doesn't give up it's beauty until the last.
As the stars paint the heavens with the moons light 
to show the way and path 
through the night toward the day.
Bringing the work of the people to start.