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.