The wind whispers its secrets into my spirit as I watch the misty dawn. The birds are still asleep and I hear the crickets sing to each other about the events of the night. The bright quarter moon hangs serenely above the trees, casting pale, shimmering moonbeams across my tired face. Around it, stars dot the sky, twinkling alabaster and royal. They form indistinct patterns and pictures which I cannot figure out. The trees are silhouetted against the slowly lightening sky, the weathervain of the barn poking slightly higher than the bush. It is my favourite time, and I fight the sleep from my bones to savour the feelings this magical hour gives me. I feel that something huge is waiting to happen, and patiently I sit and wait for it all to begin. My time is coming.
I sit and rest my head upon the windowsill, the moonlight playing across the floor. Like the dawn, my time draws ever nearer, and all I have to do is sit and await the breeze that will lift me into the unpredictable day ahead. I will understand the wind's whispers, I will join in the crickets' chatter. I will shine brighter than the moon, and I will paint the pictures the stars have begun. I will stand taller than the weathervain. My day will be glorious.
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