Morning Sun, April 8th

What’s a person supposed to say, with so much light in their eyes? Is this an interrogation? No, I don’t remember any dreams. No, the morning sun does not suggest anything to me, other than itself. I don’t write poetry or anything else of the sort. And won’t. Except just now, a breeze came up, a wind really, and the sun took off with all the new green leaves on the trees in the distance, just picked them up and moved them, like people doing the wave. They detached from the trees – the waving or shimmering shimmying points of green detached themselves from the leaves of which they were attributes, and formed a sort of conga line around the edges of the woods. Obviously, I couldn’t have dreamed this, or made it up. Then the wind died down, leaving me here again with all this light in my face.